Collateral Damage
by celadon
Summary: It's been a physically and emotionally draining case, but Don is finally poised to make an arrest. So why is it never that simple? So, so sorry for the lengthy delay!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This was supposed to be a short little piece that somehow got long . Many thanks to the group of women I write with (do you realize it's been years now?) for encouraging me and reading along. And apologies to purehalo. This was written long before she posted her story "A Hole in the Wall", and any similarities are purely coincidental. Though, boy, a couple of them were freakishly close! Gave me a start!_

Chapter 1

"Donnie."

He started awake with a jump, right hand automatically going to his hip, but his fingers brushed empty air where a holster should be. His heart rebounded in his chest, but that was mostly reaction, because awareness was already seeping in at the edges of consciousness and he half-knew, almost without rational thought…

"Don't shoot me." His father's wry voice was as unmistakable as his presence, even in the gloom of the dimly lit room

"Dad." He unwrapped his numb left arm from its cramped position, clutching an open file to his chest, and rubbed futilely at his eyes. "I fell asleep," he mumbled dully, trying to push himself into a more erect position and falling back with a groan. "How long have I been…?" He slanted a glance at his watch and groaned again. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Alan smiled slightly. "That's what I was just doing. Waking you."

"I meant sooner." Don managed to lever himself into sitting position and propped his elbows on his knees to cradle his face in his hands, trying to rub it back into awareness. "It's been - I was supposed to be reading that file."

"Looks like your body had other ideas. Come on - it's time you moved from the sofa to a bed so you can sleep like a normal person."

"Yeah." A yawn split his jaw before he could stop it and he sank against the sofa back and closed his eyes again for a minute. "I'd better head home. Charlie in bed?"

"Hours ago. And what's this heading home? Don't drive when you're tired - your bed is all ready for you. I'll lend you a shirt and you can leave from here in the morning."

"Hm." Don opened his eyes, squinting to blink the sleep from them. "Can't believe I fell asleep."

"Yeah, well, I know this is a novel concept for you, but that's what tired people do - sleep. You should try it more often."

Don pushed himself forward again and sniffed, leafing idly through the file. "Plenty of time for that once we catch this guy. Right now I'm in the middle of a case."

Alan frowned, climbing to his feet. "You're always in the middle of a case. And you can't put sleep off indefinitely. You come in here looking like the walking dead and then you're surprised when you drop off without warning. Get a real night's sleep and that file will make a lot more sense to you in the morning - I guarantee it. I'll even make you breakfast - you'll feel like a new man." He slipped a hand under Don's arm and guided him to his feet.

"Walking dead. Nice. Thanks." Don rose without protest, shifting his shoulders to work the kinks out. "Maybe you're right. The new man thing sounds tempting, since the old one doesn't seem to be doing so great just now."

"That's the spirit." Alan splayed a hand between his shoulder blades and steered him deftly toward the stairs. "I'll even make French toast. Since you barely picked at your dinner tonight. Was the pot roast tough? I was afraid I left it to simmer too long."

Don missed the first stair with his foot and caught at the banister to steady himself. "Naw, no - nothing like that. It was great. We sent out for Chinese for lunch today and somebody must have left it under the heat lamp too long. Didn't sit well with anybody. But hey, I was lucky - had to send Colby home blowing chunks."

"Humph. All the more reason to substitute takeout on the fly with an occasional home cooked meal."

"Hey, I'm here, right?" Don pushed the bedroom door inward and flicked on the light. Alan didn't seem inclined to leave and he eyed him uneasily. "You didn't have any ideas about tucking me in or something."

Alan raised his brows. "Just making sure you actually go to bed and don't decide to take another run at the file. In fact, why don't you give me that and I'll give it back in the morning?"

Don blinked, then laughed. "Dad, I'm a grown man - this isn't like taking away my Batman comics so I can't read them under the covers with a flashlight."

Alan lifted his hands. "Just trying to stand between you and temptation. Besides, I'm pretty sure there's no flashlight in here."

"Hilarious. Look, don't worry about it - you're right - I'm tired. I'm just going back to sleep." Alan looked hard at him and he raised one hand. "Cross my heart."

"All right. Sleep well. You need me to wake you up at a certain time?"

"I should be up. But if I'm not moving around by six…"

"I'll send Charlie in to wake you."

Don chuckled. "Gee, thanks. Something to look forward to."

"Want something for your stomach? There's stuff in the medicine cabinet."

Don scrubbed at his eyes again. "I might take you up on that. Thanks, Dad."

"Hmph." Alan eyed him suspiciously. "Is it bad?"

Don looked surprised. "Bad? No - just a little off is all." And, when Alan showed no sign of leaving, "What?"

"Nothing," Alan leaned a shoulder into the door lintel. "It's just with you, I'm never sure if 'just a little off' means _'just a little off' _or _'I should be rushing to the emergency room'_."

"It means 'just a little off'." Don moved into the bedroom and tugged the covers down the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. "Man. Where do you get this stuff?"

Alan smiled faintly. "I can't imagine."

Don shook his head. "Me either. Night, Dad."

"All right - sleep well. See you in the morning. There are toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet too."

"Yeah, I'll take the hint. Maybe you should get some sleep before the sun comes up. I can take care of myself."

Alan's answering harrumph was full of skepticism, but he peeled away from the door lintel and closed the door carefully behind him.

000

It was the unfamiliar sounds that woke him this time, or, more accurately, the absence of familiar sounds - no footsteps overhead, no intermittent voices from the hallway, no street noises far below the window - and he lay quiet, still caught in the tug of sleep, trying to place himself. The muted rush of running water sounded nearby, and birds, and further off, a faint clatter of metal on metal. _Oh, yeah. Now he remembered. Time to get up._

He rolled onto his back and contemplated the effort involved in rising. Somehow, his childhood room always had a somnolent effect on him. He heard the water stop and forced himself to sit up. _Okay, come on. Shower. Shave. Work. _He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

An icy thrust cut across his abdomen as his feet touched the floor, sucking the air from his lungs, and he clutched at the edges of the bed in surprise to keep from tumbling forward.

"Whoa," he whispered when he could catch his breath, waiting for it to ebb away. "That was some Chinese." He'd have to find out where they'd ordered from, because they were never going there again. "Wonder how the rest of the team is doing this morning." The pain faded as suddenly as it had come, until he could almost believe he had imagined it, except for the clammy layer of sweat left clinging to him. He wiped an arm across his forehead to blot the worst of it and then scrubbed his hands on the sheets, shivered uncomfortably. Now he could really use a shower. And maybe something from that medicine cabinet.

A practiced ear told him the bathroom was now free and he resignedly stood. At his own place, he rose blindly and made his way through his routine almost before he realized what he was doing. Here it took a little more focus to get himself moving, and today he seemed to be moving unusually slow.

His stomach didn't place any objections to him standing and he shuffled his way to the bathroom located between his old room and what was still Charlie's room, batting at the cloud of steam puffing out the door.

Been a long time since he'd shared a bathroom with his brother. He smiled a little as he found a clean towel, remembering years of fighting for dominance in front of the mirror, both trying to tame the unruly curls they had inherited from their father - without any notable success. These days Don kept his cut ruthlessly regulation short with no opportunity to curl and Charlie just let his go. Don shook his head as he opened the medicine cabinet, searching for something for his stomach and a spare razor he could use. He wasn't sure if that said something about their individual personalities or just their jobs.

He found an unused package of disposable razors and tore it open. Figured. Charlie often skipped shaving, but the Bureau frowned on the Don-Johnson-Miami-Vice look. He made a mental note to bring a new package next time he came.

Twenty minutes and a lot of hot water and Pepto-Bismol later, he felt almost like that new man his father had promised. He padded back to his bedroom, toweling his hair into place, and stopped dead at the sight of a clean shirt and socks and shorts laid out on the bed, an unexpected lump swelling in his throat. He knew his mother was gone, but just for a minute…He took a careful breath, closing the door gently behind him. This house was full of so many memories, so many complicated feelings - sometimes they waylaid him without warning.

He was sliding his arms into the shirt when he heard a familiar brief rap on the door and called, without looking up, "I'm awake, so don't even think about it."

Charlie peered around the door. "I know you're awake. And I haven't done that since I was a kid."

Don focused on buttoning his cuffs. "You haven't had the chance."

"Very funny. I come unarmed. I actually stopped in to tell you breakfast is ready and to see if you could drop me off on your way in."

Don glanced at the clock, then scanned the floor for his shoes. "Sure."

Charlie came further into the room. "So, I was surprised you actually made it upstairs last night. Thought you'd be zoned on the couch with your files for company until morning."

Don chuckled. "Probably would have been, if Dad hadn't gotten me up. I thought you didn't have a class until ten this morning?"

"I don't, but I wanted to go in early and work on some papers. If you drive me it will save me some time. Larry can give me a lift home."

"Yeah, okay. Oh - and I borrowed one of your razors. I'll bring you a new one."

"No big deal." Charlie nudged a shoe from half under the bed with one foot. "This what you're looking for?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Don bent down a little cautiously to retrieve it, maneuvered his foot into it.

Charlie gave a low whistle as he rose. "Wow. You look like hell."

Don gave him a look. "You know, you and Dad don't have to go to all the trouble to butter me up. I'll just show up more often."

"Sorry." Charlie shrugged. "Tough case?"

"Yeah. Nasty."

"Anything I can do?"

Don shook his head. "Naw - think we've got him. He's under surveillance - we're just waiting for some DNA results to come in so we can issue a warrant. He's slippery, though - we've been after him for twenty years." He saw Charlie's look and grinned. "Okay, not me, obviously, but the LAPD. This is the closest we've ever gotten."

"How'd you get close enough to get his DNA then?"

"We didn't." Don eyed yesterday's tie speculatively, then slung it around his collar. "We did a reverse DNA trace through his kids. If we can prove that they're related to the DNA left at the crime scenes, then that's a pretty direct trail to him. Problem is, there's not a lot of DNA left at most of the scenes, since he tends to torch his victims."

There was a silence, then Charlie swallowed. "You mean he kills them and then sets fire to the bodies?" he asked in a small voice.

Don glanced at him as if just hearing his own words back, then lowered his eyes to the tie. "Something like that," he said evasively at last.

"Charlie! Donnie!"

Charlie and Don's eyes met and they both grinned involuntarily.

Charlie leaned out the door. "We're on our way!" he hollered down the stairs.

Don gave a final adjustment to his tie. "That's nice. The yelling will be a big hit." Charlie took a swipe at him and he blocked it neatly. "Hey - watch the hair. I can't get away with the artfully disheveled look where I work." He gripped Charlie's shoulder lightly and moved him ahead of him to the door. "So what's for breakfast?"

"French toast. Dad said he promised you."

"Yeah. He did." Don remembered his stomach and winced. "Sounds good," he lied.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I apologize for taking longer than I expected to post - Valentine's Day really threw me off schedule._

Chapter 2

"Hey, thanks for the clothes," Don called, sliding into a seat in the dining room.

"No problem." Alan entered with a platter of crisp French toast in one hand and a pitcher of syrup in the other. "That shirt looks better on you anyway. I'll get the coffee - " he stopped, catching sight of Don's face. "Wait a minute. Still?"

"Um - " Don cleared his throat, the rich smells wafting from the kitchen making him a little light-headed. "I'll just have coffee."

Alan clicked his tongue disapprovingly, scooting the platter in Charlie's direction. "Here - you eat. Donnie, I'll make you some dry toast and a soft boiled egg."

"Dad - "

"What? It will take two minutes. That's why they call them two minute eggs." He retreated into the kitchen.

"You don't have to fix two breakfasts," Don protested to his back.

Charlie watched him leave with interest, then turned his gaze on Don. "What's going on?"

Don rubbed a hand over his eyes, then waved it dismissively. "Nothing. I had some bad Chinese for lunch yesterday."

Alan returned with a mug in each hand. "Your egg is on. You sure that's all it is? Maybe you should have it checked out. An ulcer, for example, would not surprise me."

Don sighed through his nose. "I don't think _my_ ulcer would make Colby Granger toss _his_ lunch," he pointed out patiently.

Charlie smothered a grin, forking a couple of bites of French toast. "Granger tossed his lunch?"

Don gave him a conspiratorial smile. "Yeah - wasn't pretty. Now David's got to work in the next cubicle and I don't think the smell is going away any time soon."

Charlie sloshed syrup over his toast, shaking his head. "Man, that's sad. Felons everywhere trying to figure out ways to take out the FBI when all they really had to do was drop off some old takeout and let it do it's work. Just goes to show that E. coli is mightier than the sword."

"Yeah, yeah - laugh it up. Just keep that French toast on your side of the table." Don glanced at his watch.

"That's right. No FBI Agent should have to face French toast without at least his bullet proof vest."

"Lucky for you I'm wearing Dad's shirt or I might take the time to show you what I can do with French toast - with or without a vest."

"I don't know, brother - " Charlie judiciously topped off his milk. "You're looking a little peaked there. Think I might be able to take you today."

"Dream on. And - uh - you were still hoping for that ride, right?"

Charlie shook his head forlornly. "Blackmail. Cheap shot."

"In my field we call that 'cutting a deal'."

Alan placed a plate in front of Don and then a wrapped bundle next to it. "See? What did I tell you? Two minutes. I have a travel mug for you, too. Charlie? Did you want one?"

"Naw, thanks - the campus tea is pretty good. I'll wait til I get there."

Don poked tentatively at the egg, then noticed the wrapped bundle. "What's this?"

"Pot roast sandwich." Alan tightened the lid on a travel mug and set it next to his plate as well. "What? You might feel up to it later. And it will keep you away from any more lethal takeout."

"Dad - " Don broke off a bite of toast, shaking his head.

"By dinner, maybe. Or tomorrow. It'll keep until tomorrow."

"No, I mean - " Don shook his head again. "Thanks." He tried another bite and glanced at his watch again. "You about ready, Charlie?"

Charlie stuffed the remainder of his French toast in his mouth and talked around it. "Two seconds."

Alan rolled his eyes. "You can take a minute to chew. Both of you."

Don grabbed a swallow from the travel mug and lowered it quickly, grimacing, staring at it as if it had betrayed him. "What's in here?" he demanded.

"Herbal tea," responded Alan serenely. "Coffee's the worst thing you can have on a dicey stomach - full of acid."

"Great." Don mumbled without enthusiasm, fishing out his car keys.

Charlie mopped up the last of his syrup and jumped to his feet. "Just let me grab my pack."

"Right." Don surrendered to his father's meaningful glance and swallowed another bite of egg. "Sorry about the dishes - "

"You can make it up to me later. Don't forget your sandwich."

"Yeah - " Don stuffed it absently into his pocket. "Look, I - I'll call you later - okay?"

"Right, right - go. Catch the bad guys."

Don huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Talk to you later." He turned to yell up the staircase. "Charlie - ?"

"Coming!" Charlie scrambled down the stairs with a clatter. "Later, Dad!" He rocketed out the door past Don.

Don followed, pointing his remote at the car to unlock it and lifting a hand in a final farewell to his father.

Charlie was already in the passenger seat and rifling through his pack when Don climbed into the driver's seat and buckled his seat belt. "No wonder you didn't want to move out. He always like this in the morning?"

"Like - oh." Charlie looked up from his pack. "Um - no. Not always. Just every once in a while he seems to get this Susie Homemaker thing going on. Never could figure out what causes it."

"Well, it's something." Don reached up to adjust the mirrors.

"Of course, I'm pretty sure I know what caused it today. You."

"Me." Don stopped with his hand on the mirror to frown at him. "Me? What did I do? Oh, wait - " he caught a glimpse of Charlie's expression and held up a hand to stop any answer. "If this is going to involve more unflattering observations on my physical appearance, forget I asked."

Charlie shrugged, fighting to hide a grin and failing.

Don managed to wedge the travel mug into one of the drink holders and started the engine. "You wouldn't want some herbal tea to take with you, would you?"

Charlie laughed outright. "Oh, no, bro - that's all yours."

"Yeah, I was afraid of that."

"So. You going to be around tonight?"

Don hesitated. "I don't know, Charlie. That depends… we got a rush on this DNA, you know? If that comes through, we'll be down at the DA's office, asking for warrants…"

"DA's Office." Charlie nodded wisely. "That - uh - wouldn't more specifically happen to be Prosecutor Hodges' office, would it?"

Don glanced at him. "Well - yeah. As a matter of fact. But that's not really - I mean, if anybody deserves the honor of requesting the warrants, it's Wainwright - he's kept this case alive for twenty years. So don't get any ideas in your head."

"Hey, but Wainwright's LAPD, right? So you have to go along to represent the FBI. I'm just saying there's nothing wrong with mixing a little business with pleasure."

"Yeah, well, you should know. And speaking of business and pleasure, how's Amita?"

Charlie frowned at him. "We were talking about your case," he pointed out with great dignity.

Don grinned. "That's what I thought. So let's keep it to the case."

"So what did this guy do?"

Don sighed silently, focusing on the road. "Serial rapist and murderer."

"And then he burns the bodies?"

"Yeah - at the end - he tortures…it's not a pretty story, Charlie. Sure you want it with your breakfast?"

"Twenty years is a long time. I'm just curious. He must be smart, huh?"

"Oh, yeah." Don made a face. "Loves to remind us of it, too. We've had notes making sure we know it's him, ads in the paper - he's a regular one-man PR committee."

"There wasn't anything in any of that to help you catch him?"

"You'd think, wouldn't you?" Don drew a slow breath through his teeth. "But he made a mistake. Eventually, they always make a mistake." He was silent as he negotiated a turn. "Problem is, while we're waiting for the mistake, there's always a lot of - collateral damage."

"You mean lives."

Don nodded, eyes straight ahead. "Yeah."

"How many? Women?"

Don almost managed a grim smile. Leave it to Charlie to bring it down to numbers. "They weren't all women." He caught a glimpse of Charlie's face out of the corner of his eye and added, "Mostly women. But a few men got in his way - kids. He didn't hesitate to take them out too. That was one of the problems, you know? He wasn't always consistent. One house he broke into, he didn't hurt the kids - just locked them all in the bathroom while he…the oldest boy climbed on top of the commode and looked through the transom. Saw - everything - " He took another measured breath, clenching and unclenching his hands on the steering wheel. "You don't want to hear this." Charlie didn't respond and Don gradually realized that he hadn't really answered his question.

"Ten," he said finally. "That we know about." It was almost a relief to see the entrance to CalSci looming just up ahead.

Charlie was sitting very still, but as they eased toward the parking lot he ducked his head. "I guess it's no wonder you're queasy."

"That was the Chinese." Don pulled as close the math building as he could and put the car in park.

"Right." Charlie gathered his pack. "Did you - uh - follow Colby's example?"

Don shook his head. "Not me."

"Yeah," Charlie hit the door handle. "Figures you'd find a way to keep that inside too."

Charlie was fully on the blacktop before Don caught on. "Hey!" he called after him indignantly. "Talk about cheap shots!"

Charlie shrugged apologetically, hesitated with one hand on the door. "Will you call me? When it's over. Let me know?"

Don looked mystified. "It might be late. It might even be tomorrow."

"That's okay. I wanna know."

Don wrinkled his brow. "Yeah - sure - okay."

Charlie nodded. "Thanks. And thanks for the ride. I hope your stomach feels better."

Don half smiled. "I'm hoping this whole day is better."

"Right. Don't forget to call me." Charlie shoved the door closed and Don sat for a minute, watching him make his way to the math building. Charlie turned around and waved, and Don lifted a hand in return. He smiled, for real this time. Well, the day had already started better.

He put the car in drive and pulled back onto the lane that marked the CalSci entrance.

Maybe it was a good sign. Maybe today _would_ be an all around better day.

Just a block away from Bureau parking, his cell began to trill insistently. Without even checking the display, he knew, with cold certainty, that it wouldn't.

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This story has a T rating for some adult language and a few gruesome images. The serial killer is based on two actual serial killers, and there was just no way around some of it. I tried to keep things fairly clinical and not too graphic - nothing you couldn't get from Network television, but different people have different tolerances. Read at your own risk._

Chapter 3

Don slapped the travel mug absently down on his work surface and turned on the computer. While it booted up he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the seatback, dropping into the chair and hitting the button for email.

"Hey."

He didn't have to look up to know it was Megan. "Hey." He selected an email and opened it, scanning. "Looks like Colby is still worshipping the porcelain god, so we're down a man today. I don't see anything from David, so either he's here somewhere, or he's on his way. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Pretty good."

"Good." Don leaned back in the chair to look up at her. "You do look good."

"Ouch." Megan pulled up her own chair. "Wish I could return the compliment."

Don nodded tersely. "You know, it's amazing how many people seem to think that's an appropriate morning greeting."

Megan smiled. "Sorry."

"Uh huh. So how come you're so chipper? You had the same lunch we did."

"But I stuck to steamed vegetables and white rice," she pointed out virtuously. "You guys had all that fried stuff and it was probably the oil that was rancid. There's a lot to be said for a clean diet."

"Yeah, like that it sucks all the joy out of eating." Don turned back to his computer, nudging the travel mug toward her. "Here's a donation to your 'clean diet'."

Megan lifted the lid and sniffed. "Peppermint tea. This would be really good for your stomach, you know."

"Now you sound like my dad." He clicked his tongue in disgust as he scrolled through the emails, then closed them resignedly. "You hear anything on the DNA test?"

"Not yet."

Don nodded, rubbing absently at his forehead. "I had a call from the LAPD on the way in," he said at last.

Megan waited, eyeing him intently.

"There's been another one. We have an appointment to see the ME in an hour. Wainwright's at the crime scene. He'll meet us there."

Megan slumped. "But we had him under surveillance!"

"Yeah, well, looks like he slipped his leash. We knew he was slick - he's been slipping us for twenty years."

Megan winced. "You're sure it was him?"

"Oh, yeah." Don smiled bitterly. "He left us a nice note. It's on its way over by messenger."

Megan hesitated. "We're moving as fast as we can, Don."

"Yeah, well. Looks like that's not fast enough."

"We're closer than we've been in twenty years - it's just a matter of time now. That's got to count for something."

"I'll pass that on to the surviving family."

"Don."

Something in her voice stopped him short and he pulled in a breath. "Don't - do the therapy thing right now, okay, Megan?"

The pause between them hummed with tension. "I know what would make you feel better," Megan offered finally.

At her tone, Don's eyes narrowed cautiously. "What?"

"Some nice peppermint tea."

Don snorted a laugh. "You're just wanna see me barf, like Colby."

Megan pursed her lips, considering. "I don't know - his record would be pretty hard to beat."

Don half smiled.

Megan smiled back, but her eyes were grave now. "We can only do what we can do. We're doing that. We're close. We'll stop him."

Don met her gaze, and after a minute he gave a brief nod. "We'd better."

000

There was always an unnatural chill pervading the morgue, but today Don thought it was notably more pronounced and he wished he'd snagged his suit jacket on the way out. He crossed his arms over his chest and fought the desire to chafe them vigorously instead. To distract himself from his discomfort, he rested his eyes on the sheet draped table. The lumpon itstruck him as painfully small, and after a second he dropped his eyes from there as well and sought out the ME. "So. What have we got?"

"Nine-year-old Caucasian female." The ME reached over to twitch back the sheet, but Don caught at her sleeve.

"Nine - ?" he repeated incredulously.

"That's right. They didn't tell you…?"

"They told me we had another victim - same MO - that's about all. Nine years old. What - ?"

The ME glanced at her clipboard. "Karen McGuire, nine years old, latchkey kid, apparently."

Don swore under his breath. "He said that in his last note - that the next one could be a latchkey kid. What's the address?"

"355 Larkin…"

Don glanced at Megan. "Recognize it?"

Megan shook her head.

"Me neither. But if it's in a nearby neighborhood, he could be onto us and making sure we know it - doing it right under our noses - damn it!" Don pressed his lips together and tried to get himself in hand. "What's a nine year old doing home alone anyway? Isn't twelve the youngest legal age for that?"

The ME shrugged. "Single Mom. She was only supposed to be alone for a few hours while her mother finished her shift - lots of single parents don't have any stop-gap measures for emergencies and are stuck improvising."

Don paced away from the table. _Damn again. One lousy mistake, and this. Sometimes no mistake at all, and this. Enough to make any parent lose their mind_.

He didn't know how anybody had the guts to have a kid today. He noticed that Megan and the ME were watching him, waiting, and shook himself.

"Okay. Show us what we've got."

The ME hesitated, then proffered a small tin. "Better use this first."

Don rubbed a dab of the gel under his nose then passed the tin to Megan. The ME pulled down the sheet.

The menthol didn't completely mask the pungent odor of charred flesh that filled the room at the release of the sheet, mixing oddly with a faint overlay of formaldehyde, and for a second Don wished he had passed on the boiled egg earlier that morning. He tried to focus on the task at hand, his eyes skimming the corpse, groping for professional detachment.

"Cause of death?"

"A combination of asphyxiation and shock."

"Asphyxiation. Strangled? Smothered?"

"Hung. The shock was probably from the burns."

Don scrubbed at his eyes. Professional detachment seemed slow to kick in today. "So - same MO as the others. He didn't wait for her to die…?"

The ME shook her head.

Don took a breath. "Any sign of sexual assault?" He looked at the corpse again, noting the damage. "Or can't you tell?"

"Burns are only external. And no, no sign of any of that kind of damage. There's some residue on her skirt, though. So I can give you some DNA if you can get something to match."

"Yeah. We're waiting on some DNA info." The sickly sweet odor of burned tissue was becoming oppressive, shimmering in the air. "What about defensive wounds?"

"Now, that _was_ hard to tell." The ME indicated one hand, then the other. "Any surface bruising has been burned away, but I don't see any signs of deeper bruising in the tissue underneath. Any remaining scrapings under the nails are inconclusive so far, though I may be able to tell more about that later." She lifted one of the hands and Don stared at the small, blackened fingers, curling mutely inward toward the shriveled palm.

_Yeah, well, that was no surprise. How could a little nine-year-old girl begin to defend herself against a full grown man? Especially one that was so cunning - so insidious? She didn't have a chance_. He tried to remember being nine. What had he been doing? _Baseball, probably. Little League._

"Most of the victims don't show defensive wounds." That was Megan now. "We figure he appears as someone they trust, then takes them by surprise. He might be dressed as a repairman or a clergyman…"

"Though at that age, he could still get away with the 'help me look for my lost puppy' gambit." Don tugged a little at his tie to loosen it. Even though a chill still sat on his skin, the air in the room seemed to have turned hot and dense.

_Yeah, it had been baseball in those days - definitely. That, and adjusting to the idea that his four-year-old brother, who could still barely talk clearly, had suddenly created such a fuss in their lives. He remembered a lot of waiting on hall benches, slapping his ball into his glove and swinging his legs, trying to catch a glimpse of the outdoors and wondering when they'd be done with all this testing/doctor/exam stuff so he could get back out there. His mother would poke her head out occasionally to check on him and give him a smile. Or he'd hear her on the phone in low-toned arguments with his dad…'somebody has to take Donnie to baseball practice, Alan, and I can't be in two places at once'…she'd see him look up at the sound of his name and would smile reassuringly again before turning her back to finish the conversation. He remembered a vague sense that nobody was quite sure what to do with him_.

Karen McGuire had probably felt that way too, despite the fact that her mother had also most likely tried to defuse it. Kids could always tell when their parents were struggling on their account, no matter how hard they tried to hide it. Probably Karen had done what he had - reinvented the rules a little - like it didn't count if you didn't get caught going outside, or it didn't count if you only went outside for just a minute. Made her a prime target for some deviant like Twilliger - for anyone who might offer her a little extra attention. _Kids were so damn vulnerable - how did you even begin to protect them?_

"Don…?"

He glanced over at Megan in surprise. She and the ME were both looking at him as if he should have an answer to something they had been saying - had maybe been saying for a long time. He searched his mind to see if there was even a trace of the conversation there, came away blank. _Well, how was anybody supposed to think, when it was so damn hot in here…?_

"Don, are you all right?" Megan's voice sounded weirdly far away.

_No, Megan, I actually seem to be having a tough time getting a grip today - don't really know what's up with me…_

The ME said something he couldn't quite make out and lowered the small hand to the table again. Rigor already fading, the tiny grasp dropped open and for a wild second, Don almost thought she was reaching out to him. He swallowed.

"Don." Megan's voice was firmer this time, her hand on his arm.

He opened his mouth to answer, immediately knew that was the wrong way to go and closed it again, firmly. _Oh, boy. _

Without a word, he spun on his heel and stiff-armed his way through the morgue door.

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Don." Followed by that ceaseless rapping. "Don, if you don't answer me, I'm coming in there!"

Don closed his eyes and let his forehead rock against the cool tile of the restroom wall. He took a deep breath. "Megan, you know and I know that you've got big brass ones, but this is still the men's room and I don't think the other guys would understand." His voice came out sounding better than he'd feared.

There was a pause. "I was afraid you'd passed out in there or something."

_Almost. Not quite._

"Are you okay?"

_Okay was such a relative term. _"Yeah. Just - give me a minute." He hooked a hand over the sink and used that and the wall to get himself back on his feet.

_Well. _He hadn't done that since he was a trainee. He turned on the faucet both to let the water run cold and to wash away any remaining evidence of the awkward incident. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced. If his dad had thought he'd looked like the walking dead last night, then it was just as well he couldn't see him now. He splashed cold water over his face to bring back some color and rinsed out his mouth, trying to get rid of the sour taste that lingered there.

"Don?"

"Yeah. Right there." He tore off a length of paper towel and blotted at his face. _Man. _A little embarrassed, he cautiously pushed open the men's room door.

Megan was standing on the other side; she handed him a paper cup of water and a breath mint.

"Thanks." He rinsed out his mouth one more time and, suddenly parched, refilled the cup from the water fountain and drank thirstily.

"Take it a little slow with that," Megan suggested. She tilted her head at him. "You okay? How do you feel?"

Hesitantly, Don took stock. "Better," he said at last, a little surprised. "Maybe I just needed to get it out of my system."

Megan smiled. "Sometimes that's what it takes." She handed him a damp handkerchief and he stared at it blankly. "The back of your neck. It helps."

"Oh, yeah. My mom used to do that - I forgot." He folded back his collar and draped the handkerchief around his neck. It felt wonderful and he sighed, then frowned, brushing at his shirt front. "I didn't get anything on the shirt, did I? It's my dad's."

Megan studied him. "Nothing. So. What do you think? Need to join Colby on the sick list?"

_A fair question. _Don considered it carefully, then shook his head. Except for a lingering ache in his side that was probably just the after-effects of throwing up so violently, he really did feel better. "I think I'm okay. Not ready for any fist fights, maybe, but okay."

Megan looked a little skeptical and he shook his finger at her. "Watch it. That look is exactly like my father's."

"Mm. Wonder how he comes by it. Tell you what - I'll make a deal with you. When we get back to the Bureau, you drink the peppermint tea like a good boy and settle your stomach and I promise that I won't tell Colby that you gave him some pretty stiff competition."

Don frowned. "You tell David and you might as well be telling Colby."

"No David either. Girl Scout's honor."

Don shook his head in disgust. Charlie was right - blackmail was a cheap shot. _Charlie. _He remembered his brother's crack earlier that morning and groaned aloud. "_Or _my brother. I'll drink the tea, but Megan, if this gets back to my brother, I have ways of making your life a living hell."

Megan hooked her arm through his with a chuckle. "Don't worry. Some things are sacred between partners."

000

"So, how's the tea?"

Don didn't look up from paging through the messages on his cell. "Great. Tastes just like warm - "

"All right. I get it. What are you looking for?"

"Um - " this time Don did look up from the small phone. "What happened to Wainwright. He was supposed to be meeting us there."

Megan raised her brows. "Well, we did cut our visit a little short…"

"Careful…" Don warned, then, "Got it." He hit a button and pressed the phone to his ear.

Megan waited until he lowered the phone and eyed it thoughtfully. "Well?"

"He's still questioning Mrs. McGuire. We should probably join him." _So, Mrs. McGuire, when you came home and found your daughter_…_God. _He massaged his forehead with the heel of his hand. _Come on, come on, Don - you can do this. For God's sake, it's what you do!_

"Maybe you should think about sitting this one out. Being physically under the weather makes all the emotional stuff a little harder to deal with too."

Megan's words were such a clear reflection of his own thoughts that he had to take a second to double check that she had actually said them. He looked back at the phone, his mind sliding to the image of the small, brutalized body on the morgue slab. His resolved hardened. "I don't have emotional stuff," he answered flatly. "It's against FBI policy."

"Ah, denial. Very emotionally healthy response."

"Thought we'd agreed you were going to put that psychology thing on hold for the day."

"I don't remember actually agreeing to that."

"Don - " David stuck his head around the cubicle wall.

"Saved by the bell," Don murmured. "What's up, David?"

"Those DNA results you've been waiting for - they were just delivered."

Don jumped to his feet and took the envelope from David's hand. "Now, _that_ is my idea of a morning greeting. How you feeling, by the way?"

David looked over Don's shoulder as he slid the papers out of the envelope. "Not a hundred percent, but okay. I should be all right for field duty, even."

Don lined the pages up on his work surface side by side, tracking meticulously through them. He smiled slowly. "That's good. Because it looks like we're going to be making an arrest."

000

"We've got four matches. If the DNA on Karen McGuire's skirt is a match, that's five - but we won't know about that right away. Still plenty to authorize a warrant. How did we lose him last night, anyway?" Don tried to keep his tone non-judgmental. He knew how easily things could go south.

Nonetheless, Wainwright's face went grey. He shook his head. "Had him one second, not the next. Picked him back up at his place a few hours later, but by then…"

"Yeah." Don blew his breath out. "He know we're onto him, you think?"

Wainwright shook his head. "Naw. Address was an opportunity attack, not planned."

"You sound pretty sure."

"I am sure. I know this guy better than my own mother by now. Besides, there's the note." He handed Don a clear plastic evidence bag and Don studied it. "If he thought we were onto him, he'd be playing it up. Taunting us. It's all just a big game to him."

Don glanced at Megan.

She shrugged. "He shows classic symptoms of megalomania and poor empathy. Probably does see his victims as game chips and not actual people."

Don figured his stomach wasn't quite up to thinking about that one too hard yet, so he just nodded, his eyes on the note.

**Well, I warned you and you still can't keep up. Maybe you'll have better luck next time. No hints now, since that doesn't seem to help - I'll just surprise you. **

_Next time. _Don grimaced. "I'm guessing he wasn't stupid enough to leave prints on this?"

"Hell, no."

"Figures. All right - you want to make the call? I think you've earned it."

Wainwright looked pained. "After last night, I'm not so sure. But let's do it. I'll give her a head's up that we're on our way."

"Great. Um - " Don glanced at his cell. "I have a call of my own I want to make - then I'm ready whenever you are."

Don took a step to the side to afford himself a little privacy and hit a speed dial button. By the third ring, he was pretty sure he was going to be talking to voice mail. _Oh, well - it was a stupid idea anyway._ He was just about to hit the button to disconnect when someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Charlie." Feeling a little silly, Don shifted on his feet. "You asked me to call, if - well, we haven't arrested him yet, but the DNA came through. We're on our way to submit the evidence for the warrants." _Dumb. _Charlie had asked him to call if the deed was done. Even he wasn't sure why he was calling now - maybe he had just wanted to tell somebody the news.

"Hey, that's great, bro." Charlie's pleased voice dispelled some of his discomfort. "That mean you'll be free tonight?"

"What? Oh - no, probably not. We've got to work out an arrest strategy, and then there'll be interrogations - that could run twelve hours easy. Tomorrow night at the earliest. No guarantees, though."

"Yeah, okay - how's the stomach?"

"Fine now, great - no big deal - " Don noticed Wainwright giving him a thumb's up and then pointing to his watch. He nodded and then turned back to his phone. "Hey, Charlie, I gotta go - DA's office is expecting us."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to stand between you and a date with the Prosecutor - "

Don ducked his head to hide a grin. "Will you shut up?" He heard Charlie snicker on the other end, glanced at his watch and realized it was later than he'd hoped. "Look, will you tell Dad, too? I meant to call him, but - "

"Yeah, sure. I'll talk to you later?"

"Later. Bye." Don broke the connection. He saw Megan and Wainwright watching him expectantly and dropped the phone in his pocket. "Let's roll."

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Don sank back in the car seat of his non-descript regulation sedan, watching from behind the shield of his sunglasses. Nothing yet, but it was early. The sun was already heating the air around him, though, and his Kevlar clung to him uncomfortably. He turned the chewing gum in his mouth, wondering how everyone else was doing. "Anything?" he asked aloud.

His earpiece crackled. "Not yet." _David._

"Little early." _Wainwright._

He tried to get comfortable. They were spread pretty far apart in the interests of inconspicuousness - not many options for cover along the stretch of suburban road winding through a gently rolling expanse of green. Still, despite the lack of cover, this had seemed like the best choice for an ambush - fewer civilians to get in the way, and the element of surprise on their side. Twilliger was unlikely to suspect an arrest in the middle of his early morning commute. And if he made a run for it - well - there was clear road ahead for miles. He was satisfied with the plan, despite the fact it had meant a night spent at the Bureau instead of in his own bed. He figured it would turn out to be well worth the sacrifice.

Even getting the warrants had proved easy, but then, he always found Nadine easy to work with. She struck a nice balance between allowing something less than a virtual conviction before sanctioning an arrest and still being careful enough that you didn't have to worry about it all falling apart just as you got to court. At least, if you'd done your own job right - so he always tried to be sure he'd done his part. He smiled a little, remembering the scrupulous way she'd worked through the evidence. Was it weird to find that a little bit of a turn on? If so, then he was weird. Well, come on, it was harmless enough, as long as he didn't let it interfere with the job. Business and pleasure, as Charlie had said. A crackling in his ear made him sit up straight.

"Think I see him." That was David - he and one of the LAPD guys, Jeffries, were stationed at the point nearest Twilliger's home. Wainwright was just past them, and hoped to enjoy the honor of making the arrest.

He adjusted his own mike. "Okay. Don't jump the gun and spook him. Make sure everybody's in place." He ran through the route in his head, visualizing where each car was stationed, covering every possible escape route. Just a precaution, hopefully, and Twilliger would come peacefully. They didn't have any reason to think he was especially courageous, but he was certainly resourceful.

"Definitely him." Despite all his efforts to sound coolly professional, David's voice had an edge of excitement. Don couldn't blame him.

"Good. Let Wainwright stop him - you stand by to block his way if he tries to retreat. Megan, you folks ready?"

"Standing by."

"Good." Don leaned back again, but this time his fingers drummed edgily on the seat next to him. He was the post past Wainwright, so he didn't expect to do much more than circle back to help clean up. Should be a slam dunk. If the interrogations went well, he might be eating dinner tonight with his dad and Charlie yet. He touched the button to drop the window halfway down. It sure was hot already, and the close interior of the car stirred up remnants of yesterday's nausea.

"And…he's past." David's voice was hushed this time.

Don could just barely hear the squeal of Wainwright's brakes as he moved his car into position across the road, then David's as he pulled out to follow suit and block the way behind Twilliger's car. He could just make out the slam of the car door over the earpiece, then Wainwright's voice carried more clearly. "Arthur Twilliger?" Twilliger's voice came through as little more than a murmur, not even enough to judge a tone. "Would you step out of the car please, Mr. Twilliger?"

This time the tone was obvious: cautious, questioning in return, though still too low to distinguish words.

"Detective Wainwright, LAPD. Please step out of the car - slowly - and keep your hands where I can see them."

More words from Twilliger, saying - something - Don focused hard, trying to picture the scene. "That's right - where I can see them."

_Okay, good. Now just get out of the car_…he listened intently, trying to catch the sound of the door opening. Instead he heard a sudden shout of surprise and the shrill of an engine accelerated too quickly, a spatter of gravel, then, deafeningly magnified in his ear, the thunder of a pistol shot. He was already turning the key in the ignition when David's voice barked, "Don! He's headed your way - ! Off the road - "

"Got it! Check on Wainwright! Megan - ?"

"Right. Ready." Megan's voice was grim, but Don didn't have time to think about it - he was wheeling his car, engine throbbing, waiting for the first glimpse of Twilliger to tell him if he should be blocking the roadway or pulling onto the incline of the grassy shoulder. He didn't have long to wonder. The grillwork of Twilliger's car loomed suddenly over the slight rise in the road behind him and he jerked his car out to block his progress, flashing his red and blue lights in warning.

Twilliger seemed to hesitate, unsure of whether to press forward or retreat. A concrete divider blocked him in on his left and the sound of a siren came faintly from behind him. He yanked the car toward the grassy shoulder, but this time the trick wasn't new and Don was ready for him.

Don swung his car in an arc, herding him back toward the road. Twilliger tried to peel off across the grass, but Don kept the car hovering tightly at his side, limiting his options, forcing him back toward the pavement. Twilliger twisted in a tight circle, then his front tires caught the edge of the road again and the car lurched forward with a leap. It took Don's car a heartbeat to gain purchase back on the pavement behind him, but the second he felt the smoother forward thrust of motion under one side, he yelled into his mike, "Megan, he's headed your way - watch the sides of the road for -" He never got to finish. Pain exploded inside him.

His first thought was that he was hit, though he couldn't remember hearing a gun and it wasn't Twilliger's MO to be armed. He snatched for control of the wheel, but the uneven traction of the car, half on grass and half on paved road, made it shoot forward at an awkward angle, hard to control. He felt one tire hit the concrete divider and careen upward, then keep flying upward as the sky filled his windscreen. The world spun on its head, holding him weightless in space, suffocating and surrounding him as the airbag deployed. The scream of tearing metal filled the air, and the crunch of glass, and a voice yelling directly in his ear canal, and then everything blinked out.

He didn't think he'd been out for more than a couple of seconds - a minute at the most - because the first thing to pierce the blackness was that same voice, still yelling in his ear. Everything else hovered in a haze for a moment, even the voice no more than meaningless sounds. He was gradually aware of some kind of small, prickly objects grinding into his back, hot and ragged asphalt pressing against his ear, and the pungent aroma of gasoline hanging in the air. Other sensations began to creep in as well - a dull thundering behind his temples and a sharp, metallic taste in his mouth - all playing a rough counterpoint to the fire raging in his gut. He located his left hand, moved it automatically to find and stop the bleeding there. He took precious seconds to realize that there was none. His brows pinched together. _Then what…? _He managed to crack open his eyes, brought his hand cautiously into view. _Nope - definitely no blood. So how…? _

He could get a glimpse of his position now, took in the shadow of the car looming over him, tilted on its side, the interior obscured by the airbag. Using his elbows, he tried to lever himself up, sank back almost immediately with a sharp groan as something dug at his leg. He bit down on his lip. _Yeah, okay, now THAT was bleeding - _he'd know that sensation anywhere. He closed his eyes tight, really, really not wanting a repeat of yesterday's throwing up event, opened them slowly when the sensation of giddiness and nausea abated. _Okay. _So he was pinned by the wreckage but not crushed, or he probably wouldn't be feeling this at all. Unless his father was to be believed and he was just too stubborn to know when to feel pain…_okay. Okay. _Now he was drifting. He needed to stop that…

"Don!"

He finally separated the voice from the buzzing in his ears and swallowed. _Oh. Yeah. Oh, God. Twilliger. We can't have lost him - we just can't…_

He squinted at the road, trying to see which direction Twilliger may have taken off in, then, when everything swam, squeezed his eyes shut to clear them. _It almost looked like…his car…_he took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. _That looked like his car parked down the road a ways…_

He forced his eyes further open, noticed now a pair of neat loafers on the roadway next to the car, followed them up to tidily pressed trousers, to a button down shirt, to the bland, unmemorable, mustached face of Twilliger himself, looking like just what he was - a CPA and middle-class suburban father of two. Don's vision fuzzed unexpectedly again, blurring his glimpse of Twilliger's expression, but what he thought he caught of it was pensive - mundane. Probably the same expression his victims had all seen. Nothing alarming about it. Nothing to prepare them for what would come. He twisted his head on the pavement, and the sudden pressure on a sore spot on the back of his skull almost sent him under again, but Megan's voice in his ear was getting insistent and he clung to it to keep conscious. He focused his eyes as best he could on the thin stream of gasoline sliding down the side of the car and puddling on the pavement and tried to regulate his breathing, trying not to think about the charred corpses of Twilliger's victims. Carefully this time, he turned his head back to where Twilliger was still standing, unmoving, except for a small bright object he turned over and over in his hand.

A cigarette lighter.

"Don? Can you hear me? David's on his way, but can you tell me what's happening? Are you all right?"

Don tried to catch a glimpse of Twilliger's eyes. Twilliger looked right back at him. And smiled.

Don took a deep breath, not sure if the mike was even working anymore. He swallowed hard and fought to keep his voice steady.

"I hear you, Megan." He kept his eyes fixed on Twilliger's. "I got a situation here."

_TBC_

_A/N: Well, heck - you knew something was coming, right?_


	6. Chapter 6

_Sorry, Marianne - I really do try to post on a regular schedule so you're not hanging out there too long. Some weeks are better for that than others._

_A/N: The next few chapters are a little shorter, so bear with me. I don't actually write in chapter format and have to go back to find the logical breaks when I post. Sometimes it breaks up nicely, other times it's a little tougher to find the best place to stop. _

Chapter 6

"What kind of a situation? Don? Are you all right? Where's Twilliger? He hasn't passed any of the check points."

"They can hear you?"

Twilliger's voice was as bland as his face, and it took Don a minute to register it through Megan's voice and the blood thundering in his head.

He pressed one hand automatically against his ear. On a normal day at the Bureau, he deftly juggled half a dozen conversations at once, but trying to follow two right now was scrambling his nerves. "He's right here. Hang on, Megan." At least he knew the mike still worked.

He turned his gaze to Twilliger. "That's right." He dropped his eyes to the lighter, shifted his other leg to see if that was in any better shape than the first one. It seemed to be trapped somehow as well, though not as painfully. He could feel his holster digging into his right hip, wondered if there was any way to work his gun free.

"Right _there_? Twilliger? Don, can you give me any better information?"

"They're ahead of us too? And the side routes?"

He frowned at Twilliger, trying to get a read on him. The last thing he'd expected was that the guy would want to chat. He let his eyes drop closed for just a second as the world jumped and blurred, made himself reopen them. "Bet on it. It's the end of the road for you."

"Maybe." Twilliger took a step toward him and Don couldn't suppress a sharp intake of breath. "Or maybe we can all work something out."

Don squinted to watch the lighter slide between the blunt fingers, into the other palm, then back again. He felt sweat drench his hairline, pool between his shoulder blades under the vest. "Not gonna happen."

Twilliger took another step in his direction and he half-expected him to snatch away the earpiece, but he didn't. In fact, it almost seemed as if he was keeping his distance - staying out of reach. Well, he was a cautious bastard - they knew that much about him. And a downright paranoid one, if he thought there was any danger of Don leaping up and trying something dramatic. Breathing and staying conscious were about as much as his dance card was gonna hold right now.

"We'll see." Twilliger pointed. "I want that."

_He wanted…? _Don scoured a film of sweat from his eyes and frowned more deeply, trying to follow. He lifted his head to track the direction of the pointing finger, dropped it leadenly back to the pavement with a crack that made sparks glitter across his vision . _Da - okay. We won't be trying that again._ "I don't know - ?"

"That. Your phone."

The sound of sirens was louder now, followed by the squealing of brakes. Twilliger's hand clenched on the lighter and Don grit his teeth. "Tell David to stay back."

"Don?" David this time, questioning and tense. Don couldn't guess how much he could see.

"Just - hang tight. Okay?" _Too much talking. _He closed his eyes again and breathed carefully, trying to ease the relentless knife thrusting through his abdomen, forced his eyes back open.

"I want to talk to them too." Twilliger's voice was still bland, but his thumb eased away from the top of the lighter.

Don wished he could think a little more clearly. If he gave up his phone…well. It wasn't quite like giving up his gun, and at least it would keep Twilliger here and dialoguing with them while he worked out what to do. He fumbled for the cellphone attached to the left side of his belt, heard it clatter on the pavement as it shook loose.

"Push it over here. Toward me."

_Yeah, right. Don't want to risk any snappy moves from the half-dead guy. Half-dead. _That reminded him of what his dad had said and he groaned. _Dad. If only you knew… _

"Toward me."

_Sounds tense - that's not good. Serial killers like to be in control, in charge…better if he's kept calm for the time being…don't want him feeling the need to watch something burn…or someone…_

Don patted awkwardly at the warm blacktop, trying to locate the phone without lifting his head again. His groping hand touched smooth plastic and curled around it and he hesitated, just for a second wondering what would happen if he were to throw it as far as he could manage…_no. Too risky. Bad tactical plan_. He pushed it instead in Twilliger's general direction, heard the small skittering sound as it skimmed over the roadway. He wondered how much of this was carrying to Megan and David. "Twilliger wants to talk to you."

He could almost visualize Megan's expression in the pause that followed, then, "Don, David says your car is on its side, but he can't see much else beyond it. Are you injured?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Don could see Twilliger scoop up the cell phone, shifted for a quick glimpse of his blood soaked pant leg. "Affirmative."

He heard David swear softly, then Megan again. "Are you mobile?"

Twilliger was wiping the cell phone clean on his trousers. _Freak. _"Negative. How's Wainwright?"

"He's okay." David this time. "Just took a dive."

"Wainwright." Twilliger came closer, bent his knees and crouched just out of reach. "I know him. We've been doing this together for a long time." Don winced, hoping Wainwright wasn't listening. "You must be the FBI guy?"

"Yeah." Don fought the urge to let his eyes close again. Better if he could keep them open and on Twilliger. But he wished that he could at least lose the vest and cool off a little. It wasn't like it was going to do him any good against fire anyway. But of course, if there was gunplay…

"I don't know you very well. Have you been watching my work for long?"

_God. He sounds like he thinks I'm a fan or something_. _Never mind - keep him calm, keep him talking…_ "Couple months."

Twilliger nodded seriously. "Not long at all. You missed some of the best ones."

For a second, Don wondered if the rush of rage that pulsed through him would actually give him the strength to push the car aside so he could get his hands around Twilliger's fat neck. Instead, it receded abruptly, leaving him drained and dizzy. "Yeah, well, there - were - lots of pictures," he hissed.

Twilliger nodded again. "What made you decide it was me?"

Don grimaced. _What, are we bonding here? _"…DNA."

"Oh." Twilliger looked as he must look when faced with an unusual tax predicament to work out. "What makes you think it's mine?"

Don pushed one hand against the worst of the pain in his right side, made a fist with the other. "Matched it - to your kids."

"Oh." Twilliger looked irritated, as though they had cheated somehow. "And this DNA - it's certain…?"

"Yeah." Not that he wasn't enjoying this little chat, but breathing was getting harder and his throat ached with dryness.

Twilliger nodded again and looked back at the phone. "What's the number?"

"What?" _God. Focus, Don, focus!_

"I want to talk to them. What's the number?"

_Right. _Don could just hear Megan and David and the others' fierce whispered tactical discussion, a confusion of overlapping sound - but he couldn't quite follow the thread. "Speed dial - " _breathe_ " - button three. Megan? Twilliger wants to talk." He hesitated, wanting to add more - to advise, remind, coach - but he couldn't do that with Twilliger listening, even if he'd had the breath to spare. He was just going to have to trust her.

Okay, he did trust her, he just didn't want her making any inadvisable decisions on his account…the faint sound of her cell ring carried over his earpiece, and he could tell she was adjusting things to make sure that he could hear too. _Good woman. _

"So, Mr. Twilliger."Megan's voice was professional, brisk, grim. "What can I do for you?"

_TBC_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Hopefully this will answer a lot of your questions, Alice, though not quite all ofthem! The rest are coming soon - I promise._

Chapter 7

"I was thinking we could make a deal."

"If you cooperate and come peacefully, I could talk to the DA for you."

Don released an involuntary sigh. _Okay, Megan. Good opening play._

"No DA. I want you to unblock one side of the road and give me a little time to leave."

"And why would we do that? We're talking about some pretty serious crimes here, Mr. Twilliger."

Twilliger pursed his lips. "It's that, or watch this guy go up in flames."

There was an electric pause. Don squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shift to take some of the pressure off his legs, stilled quickly at the warning stab from the injured leg. _Bad. That was a bad one for Megan - an agent under her tactical command was burned to death not that long ago. Tough for her if she had to be responsible for another one…maybe David should field this…or if I could just get my own head together…_automatically, he tried to slide his fingers to his holster again. The weight of the car on his leg had it pinned so tightly against the pavement that he could barely brush the gun butt with his fingertips. _No wonder Twilliger hadn't bothered with it…_

"David?" Megan's voice was steady, but a little higher than usual. Don could hear her over the earpiece, but guessed she had turned her head away from the phone.

"I can't see." David's voice was even, if brittle with tension. "But I can smell gasoline. Don? Can you get out of there at all?"

Don didn't bother to try his leg again, unwilling to risk passing out. "Negative."

He shot a glance at Twilliger. _Nice of him to let us have this independent conversation. I know he doesn't want to get close, but why would he risk…? _

Twilliger's eyes met his, calm and calculating - watchful. _Satisfied. _Realization hit Don like a fist to the chest.

_Oh. Of course_.

Being able to listen might be better for Don, but it was worse for his team - hearing his struggles would make it harder for them to detach - keep cool - make tough decisions. _Now, that **was** a good tactical move - brilliant, even._ _Well, we knew the guy was smart. _He kneaded his forehead and eyes again. His hand came away slick with sweat.

_Enough of this. _He wasn't going to be used to distract his team and he sure as hell wasn't going to be used to torture them. He set his jaw hard and kept his eyes locked on Twilliger.

Megan's voice hummed in his ear. "Killing a Federal Agent is a pretty serious crime, Twilliger. I don't think you need that added to your record." Don tried to read Megan's state of mind from the tone of her voice.

Twilliger shrugged. "I can only do the death penalty once. All the same to me."

"All right, I don't want you to kill anybody else. Let's see what we can work out. What did you have in mind?"

"I told you." Twilliger sounded patient and patronizing. "You let me drive away and it all ends there."

_Yeah, it all ends there. Until burned bodies of tortured women start showing up in some other part of California or another state…_Don dug his hand into the blacktop under his hip again. Cinders bit into his knuckles, scraping the skin raw, but this time he managed to brush his thumb over the gun's handgrip, the germ of an idea starting. Not a brilliant idea, he admitted to himself, but those seemed to be in pretty short supply right now. This one was seriously flawed, because firing a gun around leaking gasoline wasn't all that much better than Twilliger's lighter - a little like playing Russian roulette. But any chance at this point was better than no chance. He didn't need one of Charlie's equations to tell him that his odds of surviving this day weren't looking so hot. He had serious doubts about Twilliger leaving him alive no matter what he said, and even if Twilliger did play it straight, he had no illusions at all about his own physical state. His heart thudded against his sternum, rapid and uneven, and his skin felt hot and cold at the same time. _Shock. _Not like he didn't recognize the symptoms. How long did he have before they became fatal? _Can't remember. Not a good sign._

Twilliger seemed to have forgotten him to focus on his telephone conversation with Megan. _Good. _He nudged at the handgrip and thought he felt some give. _Progress? Maybe. _But he had to stop to take a rest. Funny how such a little thing could take so much out of him. The thought of all the other steps he would have to complete to make this work - pulling the gun free, releasing the safety, lifting, aiming, firing - things he normally did without even thinking - seemed suddenly overwhelming. He puffed out a series of short breaths. _One thing at a time. Step by step. _

The world was rocking around him now, darkening on the periphery. He closed his eyes to settle it, but when he opened them again, things were no better. He realized he had lost part of the conversation between Megan and Twilliger and a thin thread of panic shivered along his spine. He was running out of time. If he didn't do something soon, he wouldn't have to worry about Twilliger's lighter, because the fire burning inside him would consume him first. He tried to force his hand in deeper, winced as he felt flesh peel away against the warm tar. But he was able to touch the trigger guard. _Good. Something to hold onto_. He saw Twilliger glance his way and froze.

"…let us discuss it for a minute. Then we'll get right back to you."

_Megan. Well, they seemed to have come to some kind of an agreement…_

"You've got a minute and a half." Twilliger pulled out a fancy watch and studied it. _Double freak_. "After that, I'll decide for you."

000

Megan reluctantly turned off the phone and lowered it, glancing at the LAPD officer on her right. She wasn't sure she really wanted Don to hear this conversation, but it wasn't like she had a lot of choice about it, because she needed David and Wainwright to. "I don't see that we have a lot of options," she said flatly.

The officer next to her frowned. "What about a SWAT team?"

"I thought of that, but where would we put them? No buildings, no trees even. No place to plant a sniper, even if we didn't want Twilliger alive."

"How about a chopper?"

She made a face. _That must be Jeffries_.

David answered before she could. "He'd hear them coming a mile away. He'd torch the place before they could even get close. This might have been the perfect setup for us, but it is for him too, for the same reasons. I don't see that we have any choice either. Wainwright?"

Megan was silent, listening. That was the man they all wanted to hear from. To come so close after twenty years, and then to see it all go up in smoke…literally. That mental image was almost too much for her, and she pressed a hand over her mouth and fought for composure.

"I don't know what else we can do either." Wainwright's voice was slow and steady. "A stray spark from that lighter as it drops or from the barrel of a fired gun or a ricocheted bullet and the whole place ignites in a second. Sacrificing one of our own isn't going to help. We can follow his instructions, but then be ready to peel out after him as soon as he's clear of the car. And THEN would be the time to call the chopper - to track him. And the EMTs. You want to be ready to act fast, though - he's not planning to let Agent Eppes live - I guarantee that."

Megan folded her arms around herself. "That's what I think too."

Her cell phone shrilled and she glanced automatically at the readout. It said "Don". If only it really was Don, she thought wretchedly. Never mind, this wasn't the time to be thinking of that. She hit the button and brought it to her ear.

"Your time is up. Have you reached a decision?"

God, she had come to hate that voice. "We have." She glanced in the direction where she knew both David and Don were, wishing she could see them. "Just tell us what you want us to do."

_TBC_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Hm…Chapter 5 probably has the best physical description of Don's situation, simanis, but if it's still not clear, let me know, and I'll be happy to expound. Two of your questions won't be answered until later, but they will be answered. The problem with writing in personal POV is that the reader won't know anything that the character doesn't know, and Don doesn't have the answers yet. There are alternate POVs in later chapters (Megan/David/Alan/Charlie) which will provide extra information. _

_Thanks to all for your kind support - I'll try to do my clean up a little faster._

Chapter 8

"I told you." Twilliger sounded aggravated, as though the tedium of dealing with those of slower intellect wore at him. "You pile up your weapons. You pull back the cars. You let me leave. It couldn't be easier."

"All right," Megan's voice crackled over the line. "We're laying down our weapons right now."

"Not you," Twilliger's tone grew impatient. "There must be a dozen police or FBI or whatever from here to wherever you are. No - I want to go this way - where I know just how many I'm dealing with. The rest of you just stay where you are until I'm gone."

Don blew out a breath. _Had to hand it to him - he had that one right. _He hooked a thumb around the trigger guard and tried to ease the gun forward, asphalt grinding into his torn knuckles. From Megan's frustrated pause, he knew Twilliger had trumped her thin hope.

"David?" she queried.

"On it." David sounded angry, but Don could hear the clatter of weaponry and imagine what was happening.

"I suppose you'll want one of our vehicles? They're faster."

Twilliger gave a snort of disgust. "With the Lo-Jacks? I'll take my chances on mine."

_Nice try, Megan. _Don squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and tried to get a look at Twilliger's face. It remained a blurry blob floating over another stocky, blurry blob. He tried again, and things cleared a little and he could track Twilliger's gaze to the grassy shoulder of the road. Don guessed that he was counting weapons…_counting. Numbers. What was it anyway, always with the numbers…? _

He took advantage of Twilliger's diverted interest to try to keep a slow, steady drag on the gun. The effort sent a fresh thrust of molten ice arrowing through his gut, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out, tasted blood. He'd give about anything to be able to curl into a ball and ignore the rest of the world for a while, but even if his position had allowed him to curl, the world was insistently demanding his attention. He bit his lip now instead, trying to ignore the distraction of the pain and maintain a steady pressure on the gun..._Larry would have a name for this…balanced force…or was it unbalanced force? Or maybe it was inertia…friction…something…never mind, my physics still obviously stinks…_waiting for the wave of anguish to pass. It didn't, not really: wave after wave swept through him. He closed his eyes, desperate not to be sick again, and almost missed the abrupt sensation of the gun popping free, like toothpaste from a suddenly flattened tube. His fingers scrabbled over it, felt the snub barrel, groped until he recognized the reassuring texture of the handgrip under his palm. Painstakingly, he pushed it under his ribcage; more accessible, but hopefully out of sight. _Okay. Step one. Good. _He looked up just in time to see that he had Twilliger's attention again. His blood chilled.

Twilliger had a speculative look, as if Don was a shady tax deduction he was trying to decide about risking. He reached into his jacket and produced a pack of cigarettes and a day planner, shrugged apologetically. "I need a distraction," he explained.

_Yeah, right. _Don watched him shake out a cigarette and neatly tear a page from the day planner, then trade the lighter for a book of matches. Don took advantage of his inattention to feel for the safety on the gun, but the angle was awkward and his fingers trembled uncontrollably, hot and dry. _Huh. Not sweating any more. That can't be good._

He scraped at it with his nails, pressed, thought he felt it click free. _Step two. Okay. _He tried a deep breath. _Just don't shoot yourself in the back, pal_…his eyes closed again as the world wheeled woozily around him…_that would be just plain pathetic. _

He forced his eyes back open to try and place Twilliger, though he was pretty sure he knew what he was doing. It was an old arsonist's trick - delayed timer…_have we ever run Twilliger's record against any arson cases? Arson would be a logical precursor to the burned bodies…we need to do that…I'll have to search for priors and…and…okay. Okay, Don, you're drifting again…c'mon, c'mon, focus, focus, focus!_

Twilliger's outline had blurred again, but he could imagine the moves…fasten the matches halfway down the cigarette, light the cigarette, wrap it loosely in paper. Eventually, the cigarette would burn down and ignite the matches, which would in turn ignite the paper. Leave it near something flammable and you could get a heck of a boom - long after you'd had time to find a safe place to watch.

_Well, screw you, Twilliger, because I'm not going to be this morning's entertainment - not if I can help it_. He tightened his grip around the reassuring weight of the gun butt.

Twilliger approached, his contraption balanced delicately in his hands. "I just need to keep them busy," he explained, lowering it until it rested a short distance from the puddle of gasoline.

_Yeah, swell, damn thing could go up on fumes alone, and then we'll both go together. All right, diminished options here - one move and one move only - with a little luck it won't kick up any sparks…_

"I want you all to move back and away - other side of the road, away from the guns!" Twilliger actually sounded like he was enjoying himself, giving orders. _Bastard._

Cigarette smoke curled in the air, mixing with the smell of gasoline and hot tar. Don coughed, then groaned at the answering stab that ricocheted through his abdomen.

"That's good. Now, if anyone tries anything…" Twilliger held the lighter high. "My thumb could slip." He turned his back, started a leisurely strut to his parked car.

Don watched his progress for only a moment, then closed his eyes tight and fought to concentrate. He had to assume that Megan was already on the wire somewhere, setting up road blocks or calling choppers…something. And maybe that would be good enough, but Twilliger had slipped them somehow so many times before. Still, maybe the smart thing to do would be to sit tight and wait. On the other hand, if he was going out anyway, he'd kind of like to make it count for something.

"David, stay back." His voice came out as a raw croak.

"Don?"

There were a hundred questions in David's voice, but he didn't have time or energy for any of them. He was trying to regulate his breathing, trying to visualize the movement in his head, just the way he did when he swung at a ball. It was something he and Charlie never seemed to agree on.

Don believed in a combination of focus, instinct, muscle memory, and that magical moment of finding the sweet spot. Charlie insisted that he could quantify what felt good. Don hadn't said anything at the time, but he had been a little shocked, deep down inside. Did Charlie actually quantify everything? Even…well…you know…EVERYTHING? Surely there were some things where the numbers didn't apply and you just went with your heart? Don needed to believe it, anyway. Kim had once accused him of being a closet romantic, and though he had protested vehemently at the time, it wasn't impossible that she was right. He liked the opportunity for surprise, wonder. Magic. To Charlie, the absence of surprise was what was magical - following the numbers. Just something they'd never see eye to eye on, he guessed. Maybe he'd get up the nerve to ask him about it, if…well… _and now you're wandering again, Don,_ but he felt strangely more relaxed. His mouth gave a sardonic twist. Or maybe he was just sinking into semi-consciousness…

_...Later. Time for all that later. C'mon. Lift. Aim. Fire. Lift. Aim. Fire_. He pictured the shot in his head, pictured hundreds of hours on the shooting range, almost as many hours in real life situations.

_Lift. _He cracked his eyes to get a glimpse of the murky outline of Twillger's retreating back, drew in a breath, felt the gun rise shakily in his clasped hands. _Bad angle for this, but_…

_Aim_. A grey blur in his own vision, he saw the gun come round, pointed it uncertainly at the moving, darker grey blur.

_Fire_. He breathed out on _fire_, automatically gave the trigger a gentle squeeze. He didn't hear the report, but the gun jerked in his hands, the recoil kicking it free from his grasp. It tumbled and landed on his breastbone with a soft thud. _Had he…? _

But the greyness was everywhere now. It deepened into a smothering fog, wrapped around him, and finally, dragged him under.

_TBC_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"What the _hell_ was that? Who fired?" Megan's voice was a strained bark, crackling with fury.

There was a pause while they looked at each other, but all guns seemed to be holstered, or out of reach.

David hesitated. "I think it was Don," he whispered at last, only half believing it. But he was moving even as he said it, snatching a gun, any gun, from the side of the road and skirting around the blockade, vaulting the concrete barrier.

"Well, where the hell is Twilliger?" Megan's voice rose, frustrated at not being able to see for herself.

David didn't answer right away. He was running toward the car tilted on its side. The thought that Don would ream him out good for this bone-headed move if he was in any shape to notice it passed through his mind, but he figured an informal reprimand would be worth it. Or even a formal one. As he rounded the car, he noticed that Wainwright had already run past it on the other side and was further down the road, bending over something slumped on the blacktop.

"I've got him." Wainwright's voice carried over the earpiece as he turned the huddled figure over. A grim smile colored his voice. "So, Mr. Twilliger - we meet face to face at last."

"What happened? Is he alive?"

David thought about taking a second to answer Megan, but he stopped dead at the sight before him, his heart squeezing tight in his chest. Flames were licking at a crumpled piece of paper on the ground, shooting hungrily upward. They flickered delicately, gathering strength, wafting perilously close to the puddle of gasoline drenching the road. Breathing a curse, he clawed at his vest, shook free of it and dropped it gently over the small fire, moving carefully to keep it contained and pressing down to smother it. He felt the heat push against his hands, wrinkled his nose at the smell of singed Kevlar.

"Hey!" he didn't look up at the voice in his ear, the ear without the earpiece this time, until he felt a hand shake his shoulder. "Hey! I've got that!" He glanced up into Jeffries' taut face. "You see to him." He jerked his head toward the car, and David realized that he'd actually been avoiding looking there. "Go on." Jeffries gave him an encouraging nod, taking the vest out of his hands and examining underneath, then using his own jacket to begin mopping up the gasoline.

David hesitated, then nodded. Better if a friend did this. Not better for the friend, maybe, but better for Don. He didn't bother to rise from his crouch, but tipped forward onto his knees and crawled the short distance to the sprawled figure, cast deep in shadow by the vehicle's roof, head turned away from him. He rested one hand reassuringly on the vested shoulder and squeezed, nearly jumped in surprise when there was an answering groan and the arm rose weakly, as if to knock him away.

"Don?" David cleared his throat to cover the catch in his voice. "Hey, it's me - it's David, don't fight me, okay?"

The raised hand hovered uncertainly, then dropped back to the pavement. There was a pause, and David tried to move in closer.

"…David?"

It was faint and David had to duck his head to hear, but he was grinning as his breath rushed out of him in a whoosh of relief. "Yeah. That's right - it's me. Just take it easy, okay?"

Don turned his head in David's direction. His lashes flickered, but his eyes didn't open. " - get 'em?"

David glanced over to where Wainwright was forcing Twilliger to his feet, hands already cuffed behind his back. "Yup." He noticed the gun resting on Don's chest and carefully lifted it away, slipping the safety back on and curling his hand around the barrel._ Warm. _He smiled ruefully. "You know, someday you're going to have to tell me how you made that shot."

Don's forehead wrinkled, then a ghost of his customary grin spread across his face. "…hit him?"

David glanced at Wainwright and Twilliger again, eyeing the sleeve plastered wetly against Twilliger's arm. "Yup."

"Damn." Don managed a thready chuckle, his grin deepening. "Think I… had…m'eyes closed…"

David gave a shout of laughter, and Don joined in, ending in a rasping cough that turned into a moan.

"…man…" he breathed.

David tightened his grip on Don's shoulder. "Okay. No more of that for you. Megan - " he aimed his voice at the mike this time, "You got those EMTs?"

"On their way. How's Don?"

David glanced down at Don, hesitated. "Well, he could use those EMTs."

"Right. I'm on my way too."

"Right." David frowned at Don. His eyes were still closed, but they looked different now. More like…he shook the shoulder under his hand. "Hey. Don. Stay awake, okay?"

Don groaned softly and stirred. "…why…?"

David shrugged, leaning in to get a closer look at him. "I don't know - they tell you to say that. Maybe just to annoy the hell out of the accident victim?"

Don snorted softly. "…works."

"Good. Wouldn't want to think I wasn't holding up my end." David had found the rusty puddle around Don's leg, but he couldn't find the wound. _Must be under the car…can't do anything to stop the bleeding, then._ He sat back on his haunches, trying to think back to his first aid training. It had never been his best class. "Say, Jeffries - grab my jacket for me?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jeffries rise and double back to their vehicle. He turned his attention back to Don. "So…" He didn't see any other bleeding, except for some scrapes. "Too bad about those Lakers, huh?" Don's breathing had taken on a hollow sound that was making him tense.

Don shifted his head, his arm curling protectively over his abdomen. "…supposed to…keep me awake…?"

David laughed. "Yeah. Sorry." He looked up to see Jeffries standing over him, offering the FBI jacket, and nodded his thanks. He rolled the jacket into a ball and carefully lifted Don's head. Don let out a surprised hiss of pain, and David winced apologetically as he tucked the jacket under and gently lowered the head again. "Sorry. Bad spot there?"

Don swallowed and half-lifted one hand in a dismissive gesture, let it drop, but his breathing was harsher.  
David moved a hand to the center of his chest and patted lightly. "Sorry. Just trying to make you comfortable." He could see the paramedic truck now and in the distraction, almost missed Don's strangled laugh. He smiled slightly in return. "I meant MORE comfortable, okay? It's relative." He saw that Jeffries was tearing into a large paper sack under his arm and raised his brows. "What the heck is that?"

Jeffries didn't look up from his task. "Kitty litter," he said succinctly.

David stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"You know - " Jeffries was pouring the contents of the bag onto the blacktop. "Figure those guys are going to need to use some kind of tools to get him loose. Got to get rid of the gasoline first. So - " he gestured to the heaps of shavings. "Fresh scent, too," he added solemnly.

David shook his head. "You always drive around with a trunk full of kitty litter?"

Jeffries shrugged. "Not always. But _PetWorld_ was having a sale - great price with the coupon. Course, now I have to find another coupon."

David laughed. "You can have my paper - I promise. You know, you LAPD guys aren't all so dumb."

"Gosh, coming from a Fibbie that means so much," Jeffries shot back, his smile softening the words. He hesitated, the smile falling away, and jerked his head in Don's direction, mouthing, _How's he?_

David made a face and gave a slight shrug, just as a paramedic put down his kit on Don's other side and dropped down next to it.

"What we got?"

David shook his head. "Not sure. He's bleeding over there - " he pointed to one of Don's legs " - and I hurt him when I moved his head to put it on the jacket. Otherwise, I don't know. Think he's hurt inside, though."

The paramedic looked up at his partner, who was examining the spot where Don's legs met the car. "You want to call for help with that while I get his vitals? Looks really dehydrated." Then to David, "What's his name?"

"Agent Eppes. Don, I mean - Don Eppes."

"Okay, Agent Eppes - " the paramedic was busy unraveling a blood pressure gauge. "Okay if I call you Don?"

Don opened his eyes to slits for a moment, then let them drop shut again. The paramedic lifted his brows in David's direction.

David smiled slightly. "Think he's trying to tell you that he doesn't give a damn what you call him, as long as you get the car off him."

The paramedic smiled. "Fair enough. Let me just get a couple of numbers here and then I think we can make you feel a lot better. Tim? How's that look to you?"

"Gonna take a little bit to get him free. Can't tell if he's caught on anything, either. How's he doing?"

The other paramedic shook his head as he read the blood pressure gauge. "Fast would be better. Wanna get him on a line as soon as possible."

"Right. I've got a crew coming. Read me the stats - I'll call it in."

"David?"

David pulled his gaze away from Don to see Megan looming over him. She crouched down next to him, careful to keep out of the paramedics' way. "How is he?"

David shook his head. "Can't tell. They're - doing stuff. Gotta cut him free, I think, or lift the car, or something."

Megan winced. "God." She reached out a tentative hand in Don's direction, then pulled it back and ran it through her hair instead. "I should tell the Eppes. You got things here?"

David nodded without looking up.

Megan nodded back, pushing to her feet. "Tell Don - " she had no idea what she wanted to tell Don. "That I'll see him later."

David nodded again, then shot out a protective hand as Don suddenly came to life, recoiling with a cry.

He looked questioningly at the paramedic, but the paramedic was focused on Don. "So that's where it hurts, huh?" He turned to his partner. "Acute abdomen - really rigid. Okay, Don, I just need to palpate the other side."

Don's eyes were tightly closed again, but he squeezed them open at that. The paramedic glanced at David. "What's he trying to say this time?"

David looked thoughtful. "I think he's trying to say that if you touch him there again, he'll kill you. And that he's FBI and knows how to do it."

The paramedic gave him a wry look. "You sure get a lot out of a glance."

"He's my boss." David pursed his lips, tightening his grip on Don's shoulder. "You learn to read between the lines."

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Ahem…excuse me, purehalo…YOUR Don…?_

Chapter 10

Megan pushed the button to disconnect her cell phone and pressed her lips together to contain a sigh. Sure enough, Don's information listed Alan Eppes, father, as next of kin and who to contact in case of an emergency.

It wasn't that she didn't want to notify Alan herself - well, maybe "want" was too strong a word, it wasn't a task anybody wanted, really - she felt the news _should_ come from a familiar face. But notifying Alan meant that she would have to send someone else to notify Charlie, and she had worked closely with Charlie. It seemed wrong for him to get the news from a stranger.

Still, she had protocols to follow. The information indicated Alan, and following Don's wishes was paramount. Especially since it was pretty much all she could do for him right now. She felt moisture brim her eyes and dashed impatiently at them with the back of her hand.

_None of that, Megan. It's not going to help Mr. Eppes if you show up at his door and bawl all over him. You're supposed to be strong and calm and professional so he can bawl all over you. It's too bad about Charlie because they could have supported each other, but Mr. Eppes will want to go straight to the hospital - **should**_ _go straight to the hospital, because Don wasn't looking too…damn. And there I go again… _

She yanked the car over to the side of the road and threw it into park, letting her head drop forward onto the steering wheel. She only meant to take a second to collect herself, but somehow that motion released the floodgates. She buried her face in her folded arms and let the tears come.

It was only a minute or two later that she straightened again, blotting at her eyes. _All right - enough of that. That helps no one. You have a job to do. So do it._ She hesitated, thinking. _Who would I want notifying my family if anything happened to me,and none of the guys could…? _The answer was easy once she thought about it. She picked up her cell phone and dialed.

By the time she pulled into the driveway of the Eppes family home she was back in professional mode, her face touched up with make up and smoothed into polite, neutral lines. Still, she took a deep breath before she started up the path to the front door and rang the bell.

Alan Eppes answered almost immediately, his reading glasses pulled down his nose and a newspaper in his hand. "Megan!" He smiled warmly and drew the door inward, gesturing her inside. "What a nice surprise! Charlie's not here, though - he's teaching today."

Megan stepped over the threshold. "Thank you, Mr. Eppes, but I'm not here to see Charlie."

Alan's eyebrows jumped. "No? Well, I would have assumed that Don was with you."

Megan tried to hold onto her smile. "Actually, Mr. Eppes, I'm here to see you."

"Me?" Alan looked bemused and a little amused. "Well, that's very flattering, but I can't imagine what - " It might have been her expression that gave it away, or maybe he had finally added up the pieces. The paper slid from his grasp, color bleeding from his skin. "Oh God," he whispered.

Megan schooled her face. "Don was injured in the line of duty today, Mr. Eppes. I'm here to inform you and to take you to him at the hospital."

"The hospital." A faint wash of color returned. "Injured." He reached up a shaking hand and removed his glasses. "Then he's not - "

"No, Mr. Eppes." Megan's tone was emphatic. Not as far as she knew anyway, and surely that was enough for now?

"Thank God." He kneaded his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "How bad - ?"

"I had to leave the scene before the paramedics were done, so I don't know for sure." _Except that he looked like hell_. "I'm sure they'll be able to tell us at the hospital."

"Right. Let's - " He took an awkward step toward the door, dropped his glasses and kicked them aside before he could retrieve them. Impatient, he left them there. "Go. Let's go right now."

Megan nodded. Alan brushed past her and strode onto the porch. "Mr. Eppes."

He turned, antsy and questioning.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Eppes - " she held up a ring of keys she had found on a hook by the door. "But which is the house key?"

"Oh. Yes. We have to - " he stared at them blankly.

"Never mind," she corrected gently, trying each one in turn until one slid in unobstructed. "There. Locked. My car's right there?" She'd planned to open the door for him, he seemed so lost, but he was there before she could manage it, sliding into the seat and fumbling blindly with the seatbelt. Megan slid in on the driver's side.

"Was he shot?" The tone was abrupt, like someone mentally steeling for a blow.

Megan looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but he was staring straight ahead. "No," she answered, trying to read his profile. "He wasn't shot. He had an auto accident during pursuit."

"Oh." Alan dropped his eyes, a frown puckering his face. "Funny, I never - I mean, that's a new one. It never occurred to me to worry about that one. Guess I'll - add it to the list."

Megan turned her head to back out of the driveway.

"But he's alive." The tone was insistent.

"He was very much alive when I left." _Talk about skirting the issue. Come on, Don - don't make a liar out of me._

Alan nodded again, eyes forward.

Megan pulled onto the main road. "A good friend of mine has gone to tell Charlie and bring him. So you don't have to worry about that."

"Charlie!" Alan turned to look at her for the first time. "Oh, God. I should - I should tell Charlie."

"Jill is a professional, Mr. Eppes - she's trained to do this and she's done it many times before - please don't worry about it. Charlie might even be there by the time we get there."

"No, no - it should come from me. He'll - he'll be upset. It will be better from me."

Megan privately thought that hearing it from Alan in his current state would only unnecessarily alarm Charlie, but she kept that to herself. "You want to try his cell?" she suggested.

"Oh. Right. Good idea." Alan fumbled in his jacket pocket, stared in dismay as his hand came away empty. "I - I think I left - "

Without a word, Megan held out her own cell phone. "Button 5."

000

"Professor Eppes?" Charlie looked up in surprise as a head poked in his classroom door. He recognized the face of one of the women who worked in the administration office and frowned. He had just been warming to his subject.

He put down his chalk, absently dusting his hands on his jacket, and addressed the class. "I'll only be a minute. Take that time to look over the formula on the board and have some comments for me by the time I get back." He slipped out of the door and pulled it almost closed behind him.

"Mrs. Travers. What is it?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Professor," she murmured apologetically. "But there's someone to see you. She said it was urgent." She gestured to a small woman standing a short distance behind her and took her leave in a faint tapping of heels on the linoleum corridor floor.

Charlie scrunched his brows together in a frown. The woman looked only vaguely familiar, but he was getting so he could put together the sober dark suit with a certain - air - on sight. _Well, this was a new one. _Don usually came himself, or at least sent someone he knew. And he never interrupted his teaching. "FBI, right?"

The woman nodded politely, extending a hand. "Special Agent Jill Ayckburn, Professor Eppes."

Charlie shook his head. "I'm not working on anything for the FBI right now."

Agent Ayckburn smiled a polite, professional smile. "I'm aware. And I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's important."

Charlie sighed. "Look, um, Agent Ayckburn - I appreciate that the FBI does important work, but I'm in the middle of a lecture here. If you want to take a seat until I'm done, I'll be happy to hear you out, but - " His cell phone chose that moment to ring, and he sighed in frustration. _Damn. _He was always forgetting to turn that off. He scrambled through his jacket for it, managed to extract it and get a glimpse of the screen. _Megan. _Well, looked like they were double-teaming him. Might as well find out what was going on. He pressed the phone to his ear and sighed again. "Megan?"

"No, Charlie. It's me."

Charlie blinked, momentarily disoriented. Something must be screwy with his cell phone. "Dad? What's up? You know, I'm trying to teach a class here - "

"Charlie - "

There was something unfamiliar - or maybe painfully familiar - in his voice and Charlie immediately fell quiet.

"Charlie, I'm on my way to Mercy Hospital and I need you to meet me there. Right away, Charlie."

"The hospital." Something fluttered in Charlie's chest. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

There was silence on the other end and Charlie could almost feel him struggling for the right words. Finally, he answered, "I'm not going for me, Charlie."

"Oh." Charlie felt a moment's relief, then his eyes fell on Agent Ayckburn and his heart dropped. He knew the next words before he heard them.

"Donnie's been hurt, Charlie."

Charlie swallowed, thoughts racing through his brain almost faster than he could catch them. "How - how - what…?"

"I don't know much. Just meet me there and we'll find out together. Megan's sent someone to give you a ride - "

Charlie kept his eyes on the trim agent. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, I think she's here."

_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: If I didn't already mention it, this is written, and just requires chapter splits and clean up as I post - sometimes lots of clean up, sometimes very little, but, well, what it's going to be it pretty much already is. In my experience, the characters do what they want to do anyway and never ask my permission or opinion, so usually I just shut up and type. _

_And if I haven't said so earlier, I really appreciate you all coming along for the ride. You've been great. Not that there isn't a ways to go yet before it's done._

Chapter 11

Charlie later supposed that he had dismissed his class, probably locked his classroom, might even have had the presence of mind to grab his backpack, but he had no memory of any of it. He couldn't quite remember following the petite agent to her car, or buckling himself in, either. All he remembered was the _thub thub thub_ of his heart, suddenly loud and painful, in his ears, and the dozens of images, each more disturbing than the last, that flashed, one after the other,across his mental screen. He closed his eyes to make them go away, but that only made them more vivid. They were also frighteningly familiar, as if they has been hiding back there, collecting themselves, waiting to leap out and terrify him when he least expected it. _Don was right. I really need to stop looking at those crime scene photos. I mean, Don **is** right. Is. Is. Don **is**. Don. Don._

He grabbed for his cell phone again, his thumb automatically finding a button, and listened to the steady ring. After three, somebody picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Amita?" He'd thought about calling Larry - Larry was his dearest friend, and part of the official faculty - but Amita had a closer ties to the Math Department. Even if she was double-majoring in Physics now. So it made more sense to call her.

Okay, it didn't, but somehow he really needed to hear her voice.

"Charlie?" she sounded pleased, and a little questioning.

"Amita, I - um - " It _was_ wonderful to hear her voice, just as he'd expected, but it also suddenly pushed him surprisingly close to tears, so he took a second to try to get himself in order. "I, um, need a favor."

"Sure, Charlie - what's up?"

He took a deep breath. "Don's - " _Oh, God. Don. _"Don's been hurt. I'm going to the hospital right now, but I had to dismiss my class, and I didn't have time to make arrangements for any of the others. Could you inform the right people - I - I don't know exactly when - "

"Oh, Charlie."

He recognized that the warm sympathy in her tone was exactly what he'd been looking for when he'd called, but it also teetered the fragile balance of his self control, and this time he slapped a hand over the mouthpiece to keep from embarrassing himself.

"Charlie, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Charlie took a shaky breath and risked speaking. "Not - just that. Get my classes covered for me - and my absence. Thanks, Amita. I - " he broke off quickly and closed his eyes.

"Don't worry about anything, Charlie. I'll call you later to find out more about Don and see how you're doing. Don't worry about calling me - you have enough to think about. I'll tell Larry, too."

Charlie sniffed and blinked in surprise. How had she known that he'd called her first?

"And, Charlie - " she hesitated. "- Don is so strong."

Charlie pushed deep into the seat back. "Yeah," he agreed bleakly. "I know."

_But strong doesn't equal bullet proof._

000

When they entered the corridors of Mercy Hospital, Mr. Eppes surprised Megan by moving ahead of her, as if he knew exactly where he was going. She was afraid for a moment that it was the backlash of shock and she tried to catch his arm, but to her surprise, he did indeed lead her directly to the Emergency Room waiting area. She caught up with him at the reception desk, just in time to hear him say,

"I'm here about my son - Don. Don Eppes."

The receptionist scanned the clipboard in front of her. "Eppes, Don. The emergency appendectomy?"

"Appendectomy?" He frowned. "No - my son is an FBI Agent." He glanced at Megan. "He was injured on duty - a car accident?"

The receptionist scanned the list again. "That's the only Eppes I have." She smiled at him and shrugged. "It's not a very common name."

"No…" Alan rubbed between his brows and looked at Megan again.

She smiled reassuringly. "Well, that would explain the car accident."

"Yeah. I - " he looked back at the receptionist. "Appendectomy. That's - pretty routine, isn't it?"

The receptionist's face was bland and noncommittal. "The surgeon will be able to tell you more. This shows him in surgery right now. Why don't you have a seat?"

Alan moved numbly away from the counter and toward a comfortless looking row of chairs. "Appendectomy," he repeated. "That sounds so - normal. I wasn't expecting…" He started to sit, stood again at the last second and turned this way and that - looking for something. "I think - I'm going to get a cup of coffee. Would you like one?"

Megan shook her head. "Between last night and today, I'm pretty much wired on coffee. I'll come looking for you if I get any news."

Alan gave a humorless laugh. "It'll be a while. It always is."

Megan watched his retreating back, and something about the slump of his shoulders brought a lump to her throat. She eased into one of the ugly vinyl-covered chairs and pulled out her phone. Maybe she'd just make a quick call to Jill - make sure that everything had gone all right with Charlie.

She was digging out the number when she heard someone call her name and looked up to see David hurrying across the waiting room toward her. She stood to meet him.

"David! Did you ride in with him?"

"Yeah…" David took a swipe at his broad forehead. "Took forever to get him free. Part of the car door was actually _in_ his leg - I don't need to see anything like that again for a long time. Then in the ambulance, he - well - when we got here they did that - code blue, STAT stuff, but they wouldn't tell me anything. Next of kin, they said. I called Colby, just to let him know, told him I'd keep him posted." He glanced around and lowered his voice. "How'd you make out?"

Megan pursed her lips and quirked her brows in a simulated shrug. "Mr. Eppes is getting coffee. I sent Jill Ayckburn to get Charlie. Haven't heard from her yet."

"Oh." David looked troubled. "Maybe I should have - "

Megan looked at him. "And left Don? No. We just ran out of people."

"Yeah." David shifted. "If Colby hadn't been sick…"

This time Megan almost smiled. "I don't think that was exactly Colby's kind of assignment."

David gave a reluctant laugh in assent.

Megan led him back to the bank of seats. "So you don't know anything? The receptionist said something about an appendectomy."

"Wow. Really?" David shook his head. "I didn't know." He eased himself into a chair next to her. "They wouldn't tell me anything." He massaged his forehead with the heels of his hands. "I thought they were going to have to take his leg off, the way it was bleeding. Kept hoping he'd just pass out, get a little relief, but, no - it was - I mean, they wouldn't even give him something for the pain. Said they couldn't - that the pain was _'informative'_, whatever the hell that means…" Megan cleared her throat pointedly and he lifted his head to see Alan Eppes standing in front of him with a paper cup of coffee clutched in one hand. He froze. "Um - " Alan's face told him clearly how much he'd heard. David shuffled to his feet. "Mr. Eppes." He held out his hand awkwardly, scrambling to regain his poise. "How are you holding up? Please - sit down."

Alan took the hand without comment. David moved down a seat to let Alan sit between them. Alan leaned his elbows on his knees and watched the steam curl up from the cup he clutched with both hands.

"So you rode in with him."

David squirmed. "But they didn't tell me anything. Less than you, even."

Alan shook his head. "I knew he was sick. I thought he should stay home, but, well - it's hard with Donnie."

"Mr. Eppes - " Megan put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Alan. Please."

She nodded. "Alan. I can't pretend to know your son as well as you do, but I do know him on the job. And I know that if he thought for even a second that his being there would compromise that arrest, or any of us, or even his own safety, then he wouldn't have been there."

Alan swiveled his head to look at her. "I believe you," he said calmly. "But he's not always a good judge. Terry used to say - " He broke off and eyed Megan dubiously, as if to see if he was treading on awkward ground. She smiled encouragingly, and he relaxed a little. "Terry used to say that Don isn't as good at taking care of himself as he thinks he is. She's right. He's not."

"Still," Megan prodded gently, "if he didn't realize he was sick, how could you expect to?"

Alan gave her a sad, tolerant smile. "Because I did. Because I'm his father. It's funny, when we brought Donnie home for the first time, it was the scariest moment of my life. Here was this fragile little life, completely dependent on a couple of clueless kids. Oh, not that we didn't get tons of advice - we did - some of it good, some of it ridiculous, some of it just plain frightening. I remember somebody - I can't even remember who - telling me that I'd always know when he was sick by looking at his eyes. I figured they were crazy. I mean, it sounded like palm reading or something. I just kept hoping my wife would develop this miraculous knowledge, because I figured there wasn't any hope for me." He took a sip of his coffee, made a face. "I'll never forget the first time I actually looked at him and thought - 'Uh oh. He's coming down with something. His eyes look all wrong.'" He tilted his coffee cup again. "Just like the other night."

Megan started to protest, stopped herself just in time. Maybe she should just keep quiet. Maybe he just needed to talk.

"With Charlie it's easy, you know? I can say, 'So you have to schedule one makeup class, or somebody else covers for you, or you cancel - one lecture - what's the big deal? It's not a matter of life and death.'

With Donnie, what do I say? 'Forget about that serial killer for one day. Or that kidnap victim. Or that threat to public safety.' He'd look at me like I was crazy. I'd _feel _crazy." He took another swallow of coffee. "I mean, I know there's a good, convincing argument out there somewhere - I just haven't found it yet. I have more experience with Charlie."

Megan leaned forward next to him, so they were eye to eye. "You could try telling him that he's not the only FBI Agent in LA."

Alan raised his brows thoughtfully. "That's pretty good." He drained his coffee cup and crumpled it into a ball. "You got any others?"

She reached over and patted his knee. "I'll work on it."

_TBC_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Since somebody asked - in all the hospitals I've visited, it's standard procedure that only the barest bones of information be given out by any other than the attending physician - I assume in response to both HIPAA requirements and the ever-present threat of malpractice suits. This is especially true in the case of administrative/non-medical personnel. Maybe it's different elsewhere, but my experiences have been pretty consistent, so I drew on those._

Chapter 12

"Dad!"

Alan was trying to decide if another cup of vending machine coffee was worth the subsequent indigestion when he heard the familiar voice. He stood without even realizing it, wove his way through the waiting room chairs and their dozing occupants. When he reached Charlie, he almost hugged him, but a mutual reticence held him back and he gripped him by the upper arms instead, relieved to be able to physically grasp at least one of his sons.

"Dad. How's - how's - what happened?"

Alan let go of Charlie's arms and put a hand between his shoulder blades to guide him toward David and Megan and the ugly little seats. "Um - he had a car accident - probably caused by his appendix, it seems…he's in surgery right now."

"Appendix." Charlie stopped dead to look at him. "Well, that's - I mean, that's not too bad, right? I mean, they fix those everyday."

"I guess so." Alan gestured to indicate the seats. "It's hard to say. They won't tell me anything - you know how that goes." It occurred to him that Charlie wouldn't, actually, know how that went, and he cleared his throat to cover any awkwardness. "Anyway, have a seat. Want some coffee? It's not good, but it's warm." He spotted the trim figure standing slightly behind Charlie and flushed. "Oh, I'm - you must be…? The Agent? Megan's friend?"

"Jill Ayckburn." She extended her hand. "And you must be Mr. Eppes. Why don't I get that coffee? I could use a cup."

He took the hand, embarrassed and protesting. "No, no - you've done enough. I can't thank you - "

"There's no need to thank me." Jill Ayckburn's smile was warm. "It's my job and it was my pleasure to help. Now, how do you take your coffee? Anyone else?"

"Eppes?"

Alan blanched, twisting so abruptly that he nearly overbalanced. He saw the receptionist scanning the room with her clipboard in hand and, forgetting everyone else, hurried toward her, Charlie trailing at his heels.

"Eppes?" she called again, just as he reached the desk. She looked at him. "Are you here for Don Eppes?"

He took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes. Is he - "

She jerked her head toward a doctor with a white coat pulled over surgical scrubs standing nearby, holding a binder. "Dr. Gillworth." He gave Alan a terse smile. She returned to scanning her clipboard.

The doctor approached and offered a hand. "I'm Dr. Gillworth. You're - ?"

"Alan Eppes. Don is my son. This is my other son, Charlie - Charles."

Dr. Gillworth nodded a greeting at Charlie then pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Why don't we go over here, where we can talk in private?" He led them down a side corridor and pushed open the door to a small office.

Alan shifted his shoulders, trying to dispel a nervous itch that crawled between them.

Dr. Gillworth gestured to a couple of chairs in front of a battered desk. "Have a seat."

Alan hesitated, then sat on the edge of one. He saw Charlie slump into another one next to him.

"How much do you know about your son's condition?"

"Well, I don't know a lot - " Alan burst out, exasperated. "His partner told me a car accident, then the receptionist told me an appendectomy, so I can't say I feel like I really know anything."

Dr. Gillworth nodded. "Don had a ruptured appendix, which we removed. The assumption is that it's what caused his accident. His injuries from the accident are of somewhat less concern: he has a pretty nasty laceration in one leg that required some messy extraction - but the bone's intact and we expect it to heal well. Given his lifestyle - as an athlete and with a physically demanding job - we'll probably recommend some physical therapy. He also sustained a moderate concussion."

"So, when can we take him home?" Charlie spoke for the first time. "I mean, appendix - that's not that serious, right? Kids get appendectomies all the time."

"They do…" Dr. Gillworth smoothed a hand down the binder on the desk in front of him. "But appendicitis is still considered a serious medical emergency that calls for immediate treatment to avoid further complications. Since Don's treatment was delayed, well, inevitably, there are complications."

"Complications." Alan rolled the word around on his tongue. It had a familiar, bitter taste to it. "Doctor, please just tell me - how is my son?"

"At the moment, he's not good," the doctor answered bluntly. "The ruptured appendix triggered peritonitis. Complications from peritonitis develop very rapidly, so as a result of that, combined with the blood loss from the leg wound, he was severely dehydrated when he came to us, and we're watching him for any signs of organ shutdown. We've drawn fluid from the area to analyze for the appropriate antibiotic to contain the infection and right now he's stabilized, but it's a lot to fight in a depleted condition. Still, your son is strong and fit and I can promise you that we're doing everything we can for him. I'll know more in a few hours."

Alan's mouth worked. "Can I see him?"

Dr. Gillworth paused. "Once he's out of recovery and settled in a room. About another hour, I think."

"Peritonitis," Charlie interjected. "What - what kind of prognosis does that have? I mean, usually? I mean, do people - ?" His voice faded.

Dr. Gillworth sighed. "Almost any medical condition can kill, given the right circumstances, but obviously, some have a higher likelihood of mortality than others. Where peritonitis has already led to shock, as in your brother's case, the survival rate is probably - "

"I don't want to hear it!" Alan stood so abruptly that his chair fell over, startling the other two men into silence. "I don't want to know what the odds are: betting on my son's life as if it was a - a horse race!" He saw their faces and struggled for a measure of control. "Tell it to him," he continued more quietly, jerking his chin in Charlie's direction. "He loves that kind of thing. I think I'm going to take a walk."

Alan emerged from the office feeling shaken and angry and humiliated at the same time. He stopped dead, blinking around as the quiet of the small hallway disappeared into the muted noise and crowds of the waiting room. He glanced over to where Megan, David and Jill were sitting. A minute ago, their presence had seemed comforting. All of a sudden it was suffocating instead. Still - he saw Megan spot him and catch his eye hopefully. He sucked in a breath. They were worried too, had been through the whole ordeal with Don, cared about him. They deserved whatever information he could give them.

He moved slowly in that direction, scrabbling for some semblance of rational thought. Megan stood to meet him.

"So how's Don?"

"Um - they removed his appendix." The details had already abandoned him, blotted out by the dark implications that lurked beneath the doctor's sterile words. No doubt they would all come back to haunt him in some dim hour of the night . "He - has a concussion." That's right - he remembered that. "And - they repaired a laceration in his leg?" He looked questioningly at David, who nodded.

"Yeah. That's the only injury I could see."

"But he's um - he has peritonitis. I guess that's the real problem. I guess that's the worry right now." _Worry. _What a small word for what he was feeling.

"Peritonitis," Megan repeated.

"Mm hm. It's a common problem, he said, when there's a delay in treatment for appendicitis." He heard the underscoring note of accusation in his voice and hated himself for it, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I thought you people looked out for each other."

_Well, there it was - out on the table._ He wasn't proud of it, but he had seen Don run himself ragged when an agent was hurt or killed, and it had always been a chief source of comfort to him to think that, should Don's turn ever come, they would do the same for him. But looking at Megan's and David's faces, full of guilt and self-blame, he wanted to rip his tongue out.

"Mr. Eppes - Alan - " Megan hesitated, obviously trying to move past her own feelings to the bare facts. "We got Don help the very first minute we could. But it wasn't possible to get it immediately. The situation was - complicated."

"Complicated." Alan nodded knowingly. "Funny, that's what my son always says. 'You don't understand, Dad - it's complicated.' Trust me - I've come to understand that 'it's complicated' is FBI code for 'I don't want to tell you something'." Megan and David exchanged a look. "I know it's hard to believe," Alan continued relentlessly, "but my mind actually _is_ capable of grasping a complicated concept."

David rose to stand next to Megan. Alan expected him to be angry, wished he was, actually - damn it, why should _he_ be the only one who was angry? But David's eyes were only compassionate. "Don was pinned by a car, Mr. Eppes. It took a while to get him free, and before that it took a while to get TO him. We had a hostage situation…"

"And everything had to be pushed aside for that." Alan nodded, savagely smug to have his worst suspicions confirmed. "Believe me, I know the drill."

"No, I don't think you understand." Megan looked acutely uncomfortable. Her eyes drifted to the television mounted from the ceiling, broadcasting some kind of news program with the closed captions on and the sound turned off. She caught David's eyes questioningly and something passed between them. He shrugged slightly, and she turned her eyes back to Alan, worried and apprehensive. "We didn't neglect Don for the hostage," she explained gently. "Mr. Eppes, Don _was_ the hostage."

Alan would have said that he had no more room for shock or horror that day, no more limits to be reached. He was wrong. He stared, trying to grasp this new thought, mind veering desperately away from the sea of disturbing images it provoked. He swayed for a second, steadied himself against a pillar, and, mouth suddenly arid, struggled to swallow.

"I - need a walk," he finally managed in a hoarse whisper. "I - " But his legs were already carrying him away.

_TBC_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Okay, simanis, I do see where you got that idea. But if you check out Chapter 5, you can see that Don lost control of the car when he had a sudden pain and he thought he was shot. Later, when he checks for blood, there is none, because that was his appendix rupturing, not a bullet. Though I'm told it feels about as bad._

Chapter 13

He wasn't sure how long he walked, trying to somehow outpace his thoughts. A part of him still remembered where things were, so he wasn't completely surprised when he found himself dead-ended by a wall of glass at the bottom of one corridor. Instead of turning around, he lingered, watching through the windows.

_The neo-natal unit. So many struggling little lives._ Amazing how dangerous life was, right from the beginning, how many things there were to challenge or threaten it. Trust his son to decide to spend his life throwing himself right in front of as many of them as he could find. He sighed through his nose and leaned into the wall to watch the scrub-draped figures busy with the incubators.

All right, that wasn't quite fair. Don was careful - he knew that. Took all the precautions he could. It was just…

He sensed that he had company even before he caught a glimpse of a reflection in the glass. He and Charlie had lived together for so long - virtually all of Charlie's life - that he could sense and read him almost like a spouse. Now he sensed Charlie's uncertainty as he lingered behind him. Alan didn't turn around, his eyes on one of the undersized infants squirming restlessly in his incubator, but to break the ice he said, "So, what are they?"

Charlie blinked. "Um - sorry?"

"The odds." Alan smiled slightly. "Don't tell me you didn't ask."

"I thought you didn't want to know."

"I don't. But - tell me."

"Oh." Charlie shifted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, um, the odds the doctor quoted - I mean, they aren't really that accurate. They include the most fragile and likely to succumb - the very old and the very young - that obviously doesn't apply to Don, and they don't factor in Don's level of fitness, which is unusually good, so - um - "

Alan gave a short laugh. "That bad, huh?"

Charlie fell silent.

Alan watched the tiny, blue-tinged fingers on the other side of the glass grasp at empty air. _So small. Bet one of those hands wouldn't even cover one of my fingertips. _"I owe Megan and David an apology."

"Dad. No. They - really, they understand."

"I know." He tugged at an earlobe. "And I know better. Needed somebody to lash out at, I guess. It's just that every time I think of how this could end, I just - " He pinched at the bridge of his nose, rubbed a hand over his eyes. Charlie's reflection grew and sharpened in the window until he was standing right next to him.

"Yeah," he said simply. "Me too."

Alan dropped his hand. "Want to hear something funny?"

He caught Charlie's worried glance in the glass.

"Okay…"

"Know how I'm always on Don to tell me things? Open up a little more? Share?"

"Yeah." Charlie still sounded tentative.

_Probably afraid his old man is starting to lose it. _"Well, turns out? There really are some things I'd just as soon not know about."

Charlie laughed weakly. "I think I know what you mean."

Alan studied Charlie's reflection, trying to read his eyes. Seeing the two of them standing right next to each other he was struck, not for the first time, by their resemblance: same nose, same hair, same face shape, same smile. Not that anybody was smiling right now.

In Donnie the resemblance was only passing and vague, but their temperaments were more similar - probably the reason they were more likely to lock horns. Charlie looked more like him, Donnie was more like him. He noticed where Charlie's head came in comparison to his in the glass and quirked an unexpected smile. Well, except in size, of course. The smile faded just as suddenly as the insubstantial vision of the two of them standing alone together took on a new and foreboding significance. He pulled his eyes away from the shared reflection and refocused them firmly on the preemies.

The one he had been watching was really squirming now, his fingers curled into miniscule fists the size of pencil erasers. He couldn't hear him through the glass, but his mouth was open in some kind of a yell or cry. While he watched, one of the attendants came over and pushed her hands through the holes in the incubator side, touching him, trying to soothe him. He was having none of it. He kicked his matchstick legs feebly and waved his little fists, mouth wide.

_I wonder what _his_ odds are? Not that he seems to care. Seems determined to fight his way out of there one way or another._ _Fighting the odds. Reminds me of someone. _

He caught a glimpse of his reflection and was startled to realize that now he _was_ smiling.

He watched the tiny figure for another minute, admiring the way he flailed at the attendant. _Probably his odds are very long. But if I was a betting man, I'd be willing to bet that he'll beat them_.

His heart lightened unexpectedly. He reached over rested a hand on the back of Charlie's neck, gave it a squeeze.

"Come on. Let's find out if they'll let us see your brother."

000

The awkwardness still lingering in the air was expected, and Alan, a little embarrassed to be the cause of it, wasted no time in trying to dispel it. He reached out a hand to Megan, caught David's eyes. Jill Ackyburn, he noticed, was gone. "I'm sorry. I was out of line. I just - "

Megan took the hand immediately and pressed it. "No, Mr. - Alan. Really. We're all a little rattled."

Alan pushed down a hysterical laugh. _A little. Okay._

"I - was going to tell you everything. I just - thought it would be better if you had a little time to absorb - " she paused, visibly measuring her own words, made a face. "Or maybe I was being a coward. I do need to tell you everything, because it will be on the news, and I don't want you getting it third hand. It was an important arrest, and - "

"So you got him." Alan broke in.

Megan nodded.

"The serial killer guy?" Charlie piped up. "I know Don was really wound up about that one."

"We all were." Megan's eyes drifted back to the television screen. "In fact, he's going to be pretty annoyed that none of us are sitting in on the interrogation - let me tell you the whole story, and then I'll get down to Headquarters and catch up with Wainwright. David will stay with you - " She glanced at David, who nodded.

"Yeah. In fact, why don't you go now, Megan? I can fill them in. I was closer anyway." Megan hesitated, and David pressed. "Doesn't really need a psychologist, I'll just stick to the facts. Right? I don't want to get chewed out later about not having somebody there, do you? After all our hard work?"

Megan turned her eyes to Alan, who forced a smile. "Go on. Make my son happy. It's probably the first thing he'll ask about when he opens his eyes anyway."

Megan nodded, giving his hand another squeeze. "Okay." She fixed David with a stare. "Keep me posted. I'll be in touch."

David nodded, gave her a wave as she moved toward the exit. The three men stood and watched her go.

"So," said David at last. "You don't really want to know everything, do you?"

Alan shook his head.

"Yeah. That's what I thought. Just keep the news off for a couple of days - avoid the papers. It was a big story. They'll milk it for a while. The details - aren't helpful."

Charlie opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, suddenly a little pale. Before he could reformulate his thoughts, another woman in scrubs and bearing a clipboard was in front of him. "You're with Don Eppes?" she said pleasantly.

"Yes - " Alan took a step toward her, wondering what secrets they hid on those darned clipboards.

"Your son has been settled in his room, if you'd like to see him."

Alan released a pent up breath. "Please."

He fell into step on one side of her, his questions, held so long at bay, now tumbling out of him. "How is he doing? He's never been good with anesthesia."

"He hasn't?" Charlie frowned. "How come I never knew that?"

"Probably because he never threw up all over you." Alan kept his eyes on the… _nurse? Nurse Practitioner? Physician's Assistant? _He could never keep them straight.

"He did have some trouble coming out of the anesthesia," she confirmed. "Which is one of the things that took so long, especially since we're trying to keep his dehydration in check."

"But you said a room. So he's not in ICU."

"No - " she turned down an unfamiliar corridor. "But he is on the critical list, for at least the night." She stopped abruptly at a bank of elevators and hit a button.

Alan nodded numbly, trying to absorb this new information. "So I can stay with him?"

The elevator doors slid open. The woman nodded as they shuffled inside. "We can get you set up with a cot. He's on a very tight nursing schedule though, so I don't think you'll get much sleep."

"I don't expect to sleep much anyway." Alan made a note of the floor number as the doors opened again to let them exit. He felt tension radiating from Charlie and grasped his upper arm reassuringly and squeezed. Charlie glanced at him and flushed and ducked his head. For the first time, he noticed that David wasn't with them.

"Here you go." The woman leaned on a door and gestured them in ahead of her.

Alan glanced around. _Private room. So the FBI was good for some things. _There was another woman in scrubs fiddling with the equipment around a high, narrow white bed. He was preparing himself, getting a hold of his feelings as best he could, when he felt Charlie's bicep clench under his hand. He glanced at him with a frown, saw his mouth working wordlessly. _This kind of stuff wasn't Charlie's best thing. Maybe - _"Charlie," he said quietly. "Do you want to go back to the waiting room?" Charlie shook his head, gesturing absently. Alan hesitated. "Look, there's no shame - "

"Dad." Charlie shook off his hand and stepped past him to the bed. "I'm - no. I'm okay."

Alan saw him stop short and flinch, moved up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. _Okay. Probably better for both of us together anyway. _He looked down and flinched himself. _Oh, Donnie. _

A little cautiously, he rested one hand on the side of Don's head and stroked lightly with his thumb.

"Hey, kiddo." His voice came out sounding hoarse. "How you doing?" It registered that Don's head was turned to one side and he gave the nurse a questioning look.

She followed his gaze. "I know it doesn't look very comfortable, but he has a nasty contusion back there - we're trying to keep pressure off of it."

"The concussion." Alan nodded, remembering. "He's so hot."

"That's the peritonitis. We're working on that."

Alan nodded again, taking in the different machines humming a soft and familiar symphony of mechanical sound. His eyes followed the tubes, trying to discern their individual uses. "Feel like I've been waiting for this day forever," he said to no one in particular. "Funny how I'm not ready for it anyway." He was vaguely aware of distant scraping noises, then a drag on his sleeve. He shrugged it off impatiently.

"Dad." He raised his eyebrows in Charlie's direction. "Have a seat."

He blinked at the chair Charlie had pulled up to the bed. Charlie tugged gently on his arm and he finally sank wordlessly into it, his hand still resting on Don. "I'm staying here tonight, Charlie." He shifted his hand to press it against Don's neck instead. _God, he was hot. Temperature had to be…?_ He glanced automatically at the monitor, then looked quickly away. "You should go home. David will drive you."

"I want to stay too."

Alan glanced down the length of the bed, observing the draining tubes trailing from underneath the sterile white counterpane, one leg resting higher than the other under the drape of the covers. _Leg laceration. Right. _"You need some sleep."

He heard Charlie's short laugh. "Right. Like I'm going to be getting a lot of sleep alone in that big house, wondering what's going on here. We can take turns - one of us will sleep and one of us will sit with him. So if he wakes up, he'll know he isn't alone."

Well, that had been what he'd had in mind - leaving Don with a familiar face. Don was always badly disoriented by anesthesia - always - even more than the average person. Probably because it forced him to let his guard down completely for once. Alan scrutinized Charlie, noting the determined set of his jaw. "Okay," he said at last. "It's a good idea."

Charlie nodded his satisfaction, pulling over another chair and balancing precariously on the edge.

Don twisted suddenly under Alan's hand, breathed something unintelligible, then was quiet again.

Alan shifted his hand until it rested over Don's heart, patted lightly. "Okay, kiddo," he whispered. "Everything's okay."

The nurse watched him knowingly. "He's been doing that a lot. Bad dreams, probably."

Alan watched Don's face, could see his eyes racing, even under the tight shut, quivering lids. "Yeah…" he murmured. "I wouldn't be surprised. Think we're all going to have our share of those tonight."

_TBC_

_A/N: I know, I know - I get you there slowly. But I will get you there - promise._


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Well, you're a patient lot, and make no mistake. Thank you. Another one where I had trouble deciding where to break a chapter Back to Don's POV, because I miss him._

Chapter 14

He was on fire - inside and out - everything burning. No matter how he twisted, how hard he tried to escape, it stayed there - under his skin, filling his chest chasm and his stomach, shriveling his insides. He tried to call out to someone, but the fire filled his throat, singing it closed and stealing his air.

He had failed, then. Failed to stop Twilliger and now he was paying the price - up in flames, in a fiery ball of ignited gasoline. Like little Karen McGuire. Like so many others before her. Well, it seemed only fair - why should he be spared? He had failed to protect them, and now he would join them.

Still, he had never expected it to take so long…to go on and on like this. Death by fire…was it always so slow? Did it take this long for Karen, while she hung there, waiting for her mother…? Or did she suffocate first…?

"Donnie!"

The sound of his name made him twitch. Who would be calling him? Karen? No, no - she wouldn't know his name, how would she…?

"Donnie - shhh - take it easy - it's all right…"

_All right. Why did people always say that? What the hell was all right about any of this…? _

"Come on, Donnie - wake up for me - you're scaring me now, you're crying…"

_Crying. _No, he wasn't - of course he wasn't - he was burning…the tears would turn to steam…crying wasn't…it was…it was useless. No point. He didn't -

"She's dead." The words startled him. His voice? Sort of. A raw sound from his raw throat. Something soothing was stroking at his hair, oblivious to the flames that were licking at him, or maybe it was burning with him...

"You with me? You okay? Who's dead?"

Everything fell away, as if he had crashed through one wall of reality and into another, the memory of the first one dissolving fast and knowledge of the new one still grey and insubstantial. Who? Who? He couldn't remember - it was gone already - it could be so many, many people, so many he had struggled to protect and save and had, in the end, failed…Twilliger's victims. Karen McGuire. Mom. He tried to swallow, but his throat was filled with razor blades. "I don't - " he coughed instead, and a new fireball of pain erupted inside him.

"Here - come on, open up for me - "

Something cold slid between his lips, trickled down the fire of his throat, wetting it. He choked in surprise, coughed again.

"He okay?"

He thought he knew that voice, too - couldn't quite label it. If he could get his eyes open - but they stayed glued shut, heedless of his commands. Bad…this was bad…he needed to…he needed to…

"Better?"

"Dad," he croaked. It was one, brief, ray of clarity, and he snatched at it and clung tight. _Okay. _Okay, he knew something now. Everything else was sort of - he couldn't really recall - what exactly -

"That's good." A squeeze at his shoulder. "How you feeling?"

_Not so good. Because I don't know where I am, or what's happening to me, and I can't seem to keep a thought in my head for…for…and if I'm on fire, shouldn't you be putting it out or something, because you're my father after all, unless you think I deserve it too, and maybe that's what everybody's decided, that I've failed and been sentenced to burn…like…like…damn, it's gone…_

Something was really wrong with that whole idea, but he couldn't quite get his brain around it…

"Dad." It wasn't a question, really, it was just the only thing he knew for certain and it made him feel better to say it, confirm it, as if that might lead him to another thought, another idea, some memory of what was going on with him, as if it would make him more sure of other things, too.

"Right here, Donnie. You okay, now? Think you can go back to sleep?"

_Sleep. _They had no clear shape, but he knew that terrible things lingered on the other side of sleep - dark specters, with sad, hollow voices - not a place he wanted to return to. Better if he just - took his leave. Or at least looked around - got the lay of the land. He tried to get his hands under him, to push up. Icy fingers burrowed into his abdomen, digging deep, trying to pry it open. He thought he heard a cry, but it seemed so separate from himself, so far away -

"Shhh…" Strong hands were pressing down on his shoulders, pinning him down…he had some vague idea that this had happened before and that it had meant peril - that he needed to escape it. He struggled hard against them, but he couldn't make them budge. "Charlie, ring for the nurse - "

_Charlie. Nurse. _That should mean something, something significant, but he realized, with a sense of growing alarm, that he couldn't remember what. "Dad." He said it again because he had to make sure - make sure he was still there - if he was, that was the one thing - one thing he could -

"Right here, Donnie. Just try to relax, all right? Don't struggle, it's not good for your stitches."

_Stitches. Stitches? _"What - ?"

"Your appendix ruptured. You're in the hospital. And it would be a whole lot better for you if you could just lie still."

_Appendix. _He clawed frantically through his memory, could not find the smallest trace of familiarity about it. Panic ballooned in the middle of his chest.

"I'll get a cooling blanket."

Nothing about that voice he recognized. Nothing. If they would just let him up for a minute…his struggles were growing feebler, though…too hard to sustain. If everything was so all right, then why wouldn't they just let him get up…?

It was no use. He felt himself sinking, the greyness a rising tide around him. He felt as though someone had bled the last ounce of strength out of him. Something else was rising too, inside him…"Dad…" fainter this time, but with increased urgency.

"Uh-oh."

The hands left his shoulders, scrambled instead to support his head. Something cool and metallic bumped the bottom of his chin, then everything spilled out - the fire, the fear, the churning organs he'd been fighting to keep inside, over and over, pounding in his forehead and ripping at his midsection. Black spots danced behind his eyelids and he tried to clutch at his head to keep it from flying off, but something tugged at his hands, entangling them, pricking at them. Determined to break free, he tugged back.

"Charlie? Stop him - his IV - c'mon, Donnie, easy, easy - it's okay. Just relax, it's okay. Everything's okay."

The black spots were in his brain now, blotting it out, dark thoughts fluttering among them like a cloud of ghostly bats. He recognized them all, wondered how they had gotten free when he was usually so good at keeping them locked away.

"Easy. Take it easy…it's okay…"

_Stop saying that..._

The darkness filled his skull now, spinning the rest of the world far out of reach. Someone was holding his arms down, and he knew - instinct-knew and training-knew - that that was never a sign that things were okay, no matter what they tried to tell you - how hard they tried to fool you. He fought to push the restraining hands away, but nothing was working anymore, and the protests merely circled stubbornly within the darkness in his skull…

_It's not okay, _he reminded himself. _Don't give in - don't let them mess with you, don't forget. It's not okay…it's not… it's not…it's not…_

_TBC_


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Is he always like this?" Charlie was panting like he'd done twelve rounds in the wrestling ring. In a way, Alan reflected absently, he had.

"Not quite this bad, usually." Alan rested a hand on the side of Don's face, trying to gauge his temperature. A little better, he thought. The cooling blanket must be working.

"He seems upset."

"Well, he's delirious. Not the most rational state of mind."

"You think that's all?"

"I don't know, Charlie. Let the drugs work their way through and then we can speculate better."

"It could be the drugs." Charlie wrinkled his forehead at the IV lines. "Do you think it's the drugs? Maybe - "

"Charlie - " Alan shook his head tiredly. Suddenly he was back twenty-five years to when Charlie was five and almost everything was posed as a question. Usually unanswerable ones. One reason two parents came in so handy in this kind of situation. He had always been a little in awe of people who were brave enough to have three children or more, leaving themselves outnumbered. Well, he was outnumbered now, so he'd better figure out a way to deal with it. "Charlie, you've been up all night - why don't you make use of the cot?"

Charlie hesitated. "You've been up all night too."

"I know, but we were going to take turns - that was your idea, wasn't it? Why don't you lie down for a while and I'll wake you up if anything changes."

Charlie frowned at the cot, then back at his father, opening his mouth to protest.

Alan jumped in to forestall it. "Then it will be my turn. Believe me, I'll be ready for it. But I want to be awake for the doctor."

Charlie nodded reluctantly and sat down on the edge of the cot to remove his shoes. When Alan glanced up again, he was dead asleep, face buried in the pillow. Alan couldn't suppress a smile. In fact, with the steady, even breathing of a son on either side, he felt the knot that had lingered at the base of his spine ease. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him.

It reminded him of the "guys only" camping trips he used to take the boys on when they were small - designed to give him some uninterrupted time with them and Margaret a break from her "men". Probably when she had written some of her music, he mused sadly. At the time, he had assumed that she spent those days with her girlfriends or a manicure or a good book, while he wrestled with fishhooks and campfires and over-energized boys, finally dropping off to sleep, exhausted, between them, at the end of the day. But he had always stayed awake just long enough to make sure they were both asleep first, and the peaceful, reassuring sound of their in-tandem breathing was still one of his fondest memories. Besides, it was about the only time they were both still and quiet.

"Well, it looks like someone had a rough night."

Alan jerked from his reverie, a little discomfited, to see the smiling face of the morning physician - a serene-looking Asian woman. A nurse hovered behind her with a wheeled cart. "Uh - yes. He did."

"I was actually talking about you…" She flipped open the chart and ran her eyes over the notes. "But I see what you mean." She read for a few minutes, glanced at the monitors.

"How is he doing?"

"Well, let's see." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small flashlight. "You might want to take a walk for this. I won't be long."

"I'd like to stay. If that's all right." The doctor paused, eyeing him quietly. "Just to ask some questions," Alan persisted. "I'm his father and he's out like a light - I don't think privacy is a big issue right now. Besides, I've seen worse."

"All right." The doctor's voice was even and blank of any opinion. She glanced at the chart again. "Don? Can you hear me?" When Don didn't respond, she pushed at one eyelid with her thumb, flashing the light at the pupil, then tried the other eye before putting the flashlight away and sliding her fingers along the back of his head. Don flinched and jerked away, but didn't wake up. "Nice lump." The nurse handed her the chart and she scribbled something on it.

Alan opened his mouth to ask whether that meant good or bad, then closed it again. _Probably one reason they asked relatives to leave the room. _The next minute he forgot his good intentions as the nurse loosened the neck of the hospital gown and pulled the right half aside. "What's that?" The broad, almost-black bruise that crossed Don's chest looked vaguely familiar, but Alan couldn't quite identify it.

"Seatbelt bruise." The doctor didn't glance up. She was busy loosening the dressing on Don's lower abdomen. "Must have felt really nice across the appendix." She finished peeling back the dressing around the small drain in the wound and caught Alan's eye and frowned. "Mr. Eppes, are you sure you wouldn't like to take a walk…?"

"I'm fine," Alan insisted, then, because it didn't sound convincing even to him, added, "Really. He's been - very restless. Almost combative. Is there anything you can do about that?"

The doctor nodded. "I saw on his chart. Looks like the sedation was increased?"

"Yes - we - they - decided that was best. I was afraid he was going to hurt himself. What's causing that?"

"Hard to say for sure…" the doctor was examining the incision, and Alan decided to avert his eyes. "Could be reliving the trauma of the incident. What exactly happened?"

"I don't know. Exactly," Alan admitted.

"Could be imagining something else all together - delirium is a lot like dreams - doesn't always make sense. Looks like his temperature is down some. We have the results of the fluid we drew from his abdomen, so we'll be trying a different antibiotic - a little more specific than the broad spectrum one we're using now. That should help too." She must have finished with the incision, because she folded the hospital gown back over it and replaced the covers, reaching down to flip them back over Don's leg instead. She frowned a little as she studied the area around the bandage there, then started to carefully remove the dressing. This time Don mumbled and raised a hand as if to push her away. When his hand met with only empty air he twisted instead, trying to bury his face in the pillow. The doctor glanced at Alan. "Could you…?"

"Hm?" Alan dragged his eyes away from the Frankenstein-like row of stitches. "Oh - " He pressed lightly on one of Don's shoulders, hoping that would be enough. "Try and lie still, Donnie." He turned to see what the doctor was doing. The flesh around the stitches looked hot and deeply red.

The doctor was flipping through the chart. "This is the one that was impaled on the car?"

Alan frowned. "I - don't really know that either."

"Mm hm. Looks like for some time, too. Had to cut the metal out - must have been filthy. Could be something brewing in there. I'm going to recommend a topical, but if it doesn't improve, we'll open it up and drain it." She wrote on the chart again, for longer this time.

Alan turned back to check on Don, who was surprisingly still under his hands. He felt his grip contract convulsively in the cloth shoulders of the hospital gown, his knees suddenly weak: Don's eyes were wide open, dark pools in his white face. "Well - hello!" Alan's voice came out sounding strained and unfamiliar. "How are you?"

Don didn't answer, and it took Alan a stomach-clenching moment to realize that he wasn't really seeing him - or anything in that room - at all. His lips were moving, and there was the faintest suggestion of words on the short puffs of breath.

Somewhere behind him, he heard the doctor talking to the nurse about replacing the dressings and instructing her in the new medications, but he tried to block it out, to focus on the half-formed sounds, ducking his ear close to catch them. After a second, Don's lids fluttered and dropped closed again. He was silent.

Alan straightened slowly, releasing his clutch on the faded fabric, one hand automatically lingering to smooth back the thick hair. He was startled to find the doctor standing close behind him.

"What did he say?" Her eyes were suddenly kind.

Alan shook his head. "Couldn't tell." He left his palm where it was, as though the simple act of contact was a magic that could fix everything. The unnatural heat radiating under his hand made his fingers prickle. "Sounded like - something about fire."

He stayed like that until he felt the doctor's insistent touch on his shoulder. "Mr. Eppes - the nurse needs to clean him up and put on fresh dressings, so I really do need to ask you to step away now. But if you still have questions, I'll be happy to answer them out in the hall."

Alan reluctantly pulled his hand away, rubbing his palm as if it had been scorched. He shook his head thoughtfully. "Thank you. But - I don't really think you can." He stared a moment longer, until a soft throat-clearing from the nurse moved him toward the door. _Probably time for another walk anyway. I need to think._

On the other side of the door he almost ran smack into a tall, familiar figure. "David!" He glanced automatically at his watch. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

David backpedaled a couple of steps. "I - just thought I'd stop by before work. See how he was doing." His eyes strayed to the hospital room door.

"Well, they're changing his dressings, so we're both persona non grata. It can't be visiting hours anyway - how did you get this far without being stopped?"

David cleared his throat. "Flashed my FBI I.D. How's he holding up?"

Alan chuckled, then sobered. "I don't know. Not so good." He eyed David consideringly. "Can I renege on my request?"

David looked distractedly back at the door. "Request?"

"I've changed my mind. I'd like you to tell me everything."

That got David's attention. He shifted uneasily. "…about…?"

"Megan said you rode in with him - stayed with him in the field. I want you to tell me about it."

"Oh." David looked acutely uncomfortable. "Mr. Eppes…"

"I know you're loyal to my son," Alan interrupted, anticipating his reluctance. "And I know he'd want you to soft pedal. But David, I - " he shook his head. "I don't know how else to help him."

David sighed, all the way from his toes. He stared at the closed door again, as though trying to read the answer there. After a minute he clapped Alan on the shoulder. "Come on - " he gestured toward the corridor. "Let's go to the cafeteria. Breakfast is on me."

_TBC_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Lots of…I don't know. Alan thoughts, Charlie thoughts, before we return to Don thoughts._

Chapter 16

Alan paced outside the hospital room door, waiting for David to finish his visit. He wasn't sure what he could be doing - it wasn't as if Don was awake enough for conversation - but he felt they deserved a little privacy nonetheless.

Breakfast had taken a while. He couldn't remember what he had eaten, or even if he had eaten, all he could really remember was David's careful recounting of yesterday's events: his antiseptic, professional words meticulously selected to build distance and detachment. And maybe that worked well on the job. It didn't, however, he reflected ruefully, work particularly well for a parent - the brisk euphemisms did nothing to dilute the horrific pictures left teeming in his brain. Worst of all, he knew that David had omitted things - whether due to FBI security or because he thought they were too disturbing to share. He recognized the behavior from Don - the careful pauses, the visible weighing of words. He didn't press him to fill in the gaps.

He stopped his pacing and stared at the hospital room door, fighting the urge to push through and see with his own eyes that Don was _not_ trapped, helpless in the hands of a homicidal maniac. Of course he wasn't. He knew that. He was safe in the hospital, receiving good care. All of the rest was past.

Except, maybe, in his own mind…and how did you shield someone from nightmares? When Don was small, he could sit with him until he fell asleep, hand him a stuffed companion, leave a light burning, methodically search the closets and corners and under the bed to expose any hypothetical monsters. What did you do when your child was an adult and the monsters were real?

The door opened and David slipped out, surprisingly light and quiet on his feet. He looked tired, but offered Alan a polite nod and smile.

"Thanks. I'll update everybody."

Alan tried an unconvincing smile of his own. "I'll let you know if there's any change. And - I don't remember if I ever said thank you. For riding with him, for getting him here. I am grateful."

David thrust his hands in his pockets. "Not a problem. It's what we do. We _do _look out for each other - I swear."

Alan nodded wordlessly. After a second, he held out his hand.

David took it in a bone-crushing grip. "Take care, Mr. Eppes. I'll be back."

Alan poked his head in the room before entering. All was quiet. Charlie had rolled onto his side in a more natural sleeping position, the wool hospital-issue blanket straggling half on the floor. Alan shook his head. Why was it that neither of his sons could keep covered for more than ten minutes, anyway? Didn't they know that sleep wasn't supposed to be an aerobic exercise? He scooped up the blanket and draped it back over Charlie, finishing with a light pat. Charlie didn't even stir.

He wandered slowly back to Don's bedside, moving his arms to loosen the stiffness in his shoulders, listening to his joints crack. He stood gazing down at him for a minute, trying to decide whether he looked better or worse, trying not to visualize the parade of scenes David's recounting had planted in his head. Pressing his lips together, he pulled the chair closer to the bed, as if to create a protective bulwark. He groped for Don's wrist and grasped it tightly, taking comfort in the feel of the light pulse beating against his grip. His mouth twisted in an ironic grimace.

His son wore Kevlar and carried a gun and was highly trained in combat, and he planned to protect him with a visitor's chair and a nightlight.

_Right. _Who was he kidding?

000

There was a rustle of stiff sheets and Charlie glanced up from the lecture he was downloading to the CalSci website just in time to see his father, eyes still on his crossword puzzle, rest a hand lightly on Don's upper arm and murmur some kind of soft assurances. Don went quiet again.

Charlie pushed back in his chair and stretched his legs. A little sleep had done him good. Then Amita and Larry had stopped by a few hours ago, bearing clean clothes and toiletries and Alan's glasses and some papers from Charlie's office, courtesy of the spare key Charlie always left with Larry. It had been a welcome distraction. Alan had shooed them, with Charlie, to the cafeteria for a bite to eat, declining to join them, but requesting a sandwich.

The cafeteria had proved unbearably bright and noisy, and Larry's and Amita's kind sympathy had made Charlie almost as restless as Don. It had been a relief to thank them and bid them good-bye and return to his vigil in the somber, darkened little room. Not that he had any clear idea what he was supposed to do there either. He kept watching his father, trying to follow his example.

His father seemed to function with deft confidence - making soothing noises, adjusting the bedding, reaching for the emesis basin at just the right moment. Charlie was mystified at the ease with which he seemed to anticipate everything. _Practice, probably._ Between their growing up years and Mom's cancer, he must have gotten a lot. Charlie was painfully aware that he, on the other hand, had very little - his avoidance of his mother's illness still sat like a scar on his heart. Even today he had trouble parsing out his motives.

It had seemed to make sense at the time - no, it had seemed to move beyond sense, into instinct and - maybe fear. But part of him had believed, on some primal level, that solving one unsolvable equation would prove and fix something else - open up the possibility to solving all unsolvable things - like illness. And death. And heartbreak. He couldn't remember if he had been surprised when it hadn't worked out that way at all - when he hadn't managed to solve P vs. NP, never mind impending death. He only remembered a crushing sense of sadness and failure and loss. Of having missed out on something unbearably important, no matter how unbearable. He was determined that that wouldn't happen again. So here he was. Feeling idiotically useless, but dogged.

His computer informed him that his lecture had successfully downloaded and he turned it off and set it aside.

It hadn't been pretty, the vigil so far. He hadn't expected it to be, really, but…

The first time Don had thrown up, he had been horrified. _Dad, that looks like…did he just throw up…? Charlie, he's had surgery. You throw up all kinds of nasty things afterwards. It's no reason for alarm. _Charlie had swallowed hard. Yeah, but…how much blood could one person lose? And was that really the truth, or was it one more _'don't upset Charlie, you know how he gets…?' _He had scrunched down in his chair, determined that comforting him would _not_ become the focus of this exercise, had tried to step up and restrain Don when he'd endangered his IV, was stunned and a little comforted at the way he had fought back, at how _strong_ he was, despite everything. He had remained silent during the ensuing argument between his father and the medical staff about how to handle Don's restlessness - about head injuries and medication and blown stitches and infection - that had finally resulted in an uneasy truce and putting Don under deeper sedation. He hadn't had an opinion at the time - didn't feel he was entitled to one, really - but now he found it disturbing to see Don so still, even in contrast to his earlier distress - as if they had somehow snuffed out an important part of who he was. **Is. **_Is, is, is. Don **Is.**_

He leaned forward on his elbows, studying Don's face. He looked so pale. Okay, not that he was very dark at the best of times, but…it was the stillness, really, that was bothering him. It didn't look peaceful, it just looked - absent. Uninhabited. As if Don had gone away and left a shell behind. Just like Mom had.

He asked Don from time to time for details on that period of their mother's illness. Was she in pain? Was she alert? Was she afraid? Don's answers were always glib and reassuring. Charlie could never quite decide how much was fact, how much was Don protecting him, and how much was Don just not wanting to relive it himself. Charlie never pried for too long. He had no right to open up Don's wounds for his own information - he was the one who had chosen not to be there. But he couldn't help wondering.

Don's hand jumped and Charlie jumped too in surprise. He glanced sheepishly at his father to see if he'd noticed, but he seemed to be deep in his crossword puzzle. Relieved, he looked back at Don, saw the hand, wrapped in white bandages, try to curl, as if grasping at something, his eyelids quivering. Charlie smiled.

_Okay, so you are in there. What are you trying to do? Solve a case? Win an argument? Swing a bat? Maybe that's it - bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, Donnie Eppes at bat. Yeah, that's a good one. I hope that's it. Hit it out of the park, Don. _

Don kicked and the blanket slithered half off. Charlie grabbed it before it could fall, clumsily straightened it, tugging it smooth. He glanced at his father again, but he was tapping his pencil against his lower lip, eyes on his puzzle, forehead wrinkled in a frown of concentration.

Charlie cleared his throat. "So. What do you suppose he's thinking about?"

Alan glanced up and removed his glasses, hesitating. "I have no idea," he said at last. He smiled a little. "Of course, I pretty much feel that way when he's well and whole, too."

"Yeah." Charlie laughed faintly. "Just seems like - seems like he has something on his mind."

He reached out a cautious hand and curled it around Don's forearm, careful to avoid the IV line. "Hey, bro. How you feeling?" To his surprise, Don stirred again, breathed some kind of wordless sigh that might have been an answer. Charlie blinked, stomped down the impulse to recoil in surprise. He looked up to see his father eyeing him thoughtfully and straightened, a little embarrassed, his grip sliding lower until it grasped Don's hand. It felt dry and hot, even under the wrapping of bandages. He cleared his throat again. "So - um - I was reworking those odds…you know, tightening the data using Don's characteristics…"

Alan perched his glasses back on his nose, snapping out the paper that held his crossword puzzle. "And you decided that they're not all that bad - all things considered."

"Well - yeah." Charlie sat back in surprise. "How did you know that?"

Alan counted spaces, tidily filled in a word. "Because I decided that hours ago - that you were right."

"You did?" Charlie blinked. "I mean, I am, but - what did you - ? I mean, what variables - ?"

Alan crossed off a clue, a slow smile stretching his lips. "Just what you said - Don himself." He glanced at Charlie over the paper and his smile broadened. "Don't look so astonished - your old man might still know a few things. Maybe not mathematically, but I know my sons. And one thing I know is that Donnie has never gone down without a fight. Why should that be different now? Any chance he has, he'll fight for it."

Charlie nodded. "Analysis of Variance."

"I knew you'd have a fancy name for it." He lowered the paper and eyed Charlie narrowly. "So. Think you'd be okay alone here if I got up to stretch my legs?"

Charlie's heart skittered in his chest. "Sure - I'd be - sure. Go ahead." He bobbed his head in a decisive nod. "I've got it covered."

Alan looked at him a moment longer, then rose, massaging Charlie's scalp in a rough caress as he passed. "I think you do. Who knows? Keep it up and you may get a chance to have him throw up all over you."

_TBC_


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: You know, I have to say that it's gratifying to find so many people who want to read about Don. For the longest time I thought I was out here all alone._

Chapter 17

_Lift. Aim. Fire. Lift. Aim. Fire. Lift…c'mon, c'mon, Don…lift…_but everything was so heavy. Not as hot anymore, so maybe he wasn't burning after all, maybe he was just still flattened on the roadway with the sun beating down, wishing he could lose that damned Kevlar and get a little air…

_Lift. Lift. He's getting away, don't just lie there like a useless piece of wood…twenty years. Ten bodies. No, eleven, counting Karen…how many more if I don't…god, how did I mess this one up? LIFT. _Nothing moved, except one hand, the smallest twitch - _that was no good. What did that help? C'mon, you can do better than this - mind over matter - over physical limitations. _He'd done it before. But this time his body didn't seem to be convinced. Frustrated, angry, he tried to pull his leg loose, felt something move free for a moment - then it was back, the smothering weight. Desperate, he tightened his grip on the gun. _Lift. You don't have time. Seconds, maybe, before everything goes up in flames and Twilliger goes free_…his hand actually moved. _Okay. Okay - aim_…but he was blind. The world was as dark as a moonless night and he was finding a target strictly from memory. _This is why you're not supposed to operate a firearm when impaired, Eppes…_but maybe these were extenuating circumstances. And if he took out anybody, it was going to be himself and Twilliger. A calculated risk. He could live with it. Or die with it, if need be.

_Aim. Aim. Aim. Yeah_. He thought he had it. His hand felt steady.

_Now. Fire. _He took a in breath. Squeezed on the out breath. Felt the gun jam.

Don came awake with such a jolt that his head swam, his vision a swirl of bright colors and flashing lights. He closed his eyes to make them go away but they lingered behind his eyelids, stabbing at his temples. He swallowed down a rising nausea.

"Don?"

His fingers twitched, trying to reach for his earpiece, but they were strangely heavy and didn't make it very far.

"Hey. Don. You okay? You awake?"

A pressure on his shoulder and he jerked from it, sending pain shooting through so many parts of him that he couldn't quite track them, the breath sucked out of him. But he was remembering something…another pressure on his shoulder…someone safe had…"David?" _That would be good. David could stop Twilliger._

"No, Don. It's me - Charlie."

_Charlie. Charlie? No, no - that was crazy. It couldn't be…_he didn't want Charlie here, in the middle of this mess _- _somebody should make him go away. He tried to shift his leg, but it was inert, immobile, a column of fire. He pushed down a hysteria-laced laugh. _It was going to be really hard to make this one seem nonchalant…_

"Charlie…" _Wow. _His throat was like sandpaper and that one more word left him so sapped he couldn't imagine how he was going to rally any persuasive arguments. "Don't…tell Dad, okay?…I'll…"

"Don," Charlie interrupted abruptly. "Dad knows. He's just gone to take a walk. He'll be back any minute. Just - take it easy."

_He…? Wait. _He lay very still, bewildered, because there actually was some memory of his father, and he couldn't quite fit it in with everything else, with Twilliger and the car and…_wait_…it was like he had a dozen pieces, all from different jigsaw puzzles, and couldn't begin to figure how to put them together - or even if they would fit together at all. It frightened him much more than Twilliger had, as if he was sliding toward some yawning black hole of meaninglessness, unable to grab purchase and slow his fall. He wanted Charlie to set up his blackboards and draw him some charts - _see, Don, this is where it started, at point A - then we move to point B, and see? From here, we find ourselves at…it all makes sense, once you see the numbers…God_. He moved to lift a hand to rub at his eyes and maybe force some sense back into them, but something was clinging to his finger. He tried to shake it free.

"Don't - " He felt a weight on his hand, and this time it really did seem like Charlie's touch. "Leave that on your finger. You'd be amazed how many people run in here, all bent out of shape, when you take that off."

_Take…what off? _He tried to move his hand again, to get a look, but the movement seemed feeble even to him, and the gentle pressure on it was more than enough to keep it in place. Oh, well, he couldn't see a damn thing anyway_…_what had Charlie said…running people…what people? His team? The LAPD guys? "Who…?"

_And what about Twilliger? Charlie shouldn't be here. He should go. How the heck did he get here anyway?_ "Charlie - " The words evaporated in the dryness of his throat, so he tried to move his free hand to indicate his meaning, shoo him away.

"Water," Charlie sounded reflective, as if he had just remembered something important. "You want water. I almost forgot - "

Something small and plastic poked at his mouth and he closed his lips around it and drew in automatically. Coolness drenched his tongue and dampened his parched throat. How long had he been lying here, longing for just that? It was a blessed relief, almost enough to make him glad Charlie was there until he thought of Charlie watching him go up in flames or, worse, going up with him…he pulled away from the plastic straw, swallowing carefully to moisten his voice. "Go." _It's not safe - are you crazy, being here? Go - _

"You want Dad? Is that it? He'll be back in a minute. Drink some more of this - you're supposed to stay hydrated…"

_Dad? Oh, yeah, that would be about perfect, Dad here - Dad. Wait. There had been…_he had something wrong.

_C'mon, Charlie, help me out here - I could use one of those lectures of yours…See, Don? If we start from your current location and add all the parameters, just a few assumptions will lead us back to your point of origin…point of origin. Arson lingo. Arson. Twilliger. Fire. Ready. Aim. No. Wait…Dad. _

"Char…" He tried to grab at the hand on top of his but his stiff fingers wouldn't even make a fist, the movement lighting little ribbons of fire along the backs of his knuckles. _Fire…_fighting a thin shiver of alarm, he tried the other hand instead, found it encumbered too and jerked as hard as he could manage, to free it. There was resistance, then sudden give, then a metallic crash and a sharp sting in his arm.

"Hey!" The pressure left his right hand, followed by scrabbling noises and a firm grip on his left arm instead, then an odd tilting sensation under his left side. The grip on his left arm turned into a light rub before he could fight it off. "You know, you really have to stop doing that. Totally ticks off the nurses. Not to mention what it does to you - you need that stuff. Antibiotics…saline…morphine…the doctor thinks the new antibiotic is helping."

_Antibiotic. Wait - _he tried to lift a hand again to press some sense back into his head, but it was so heavy - he managed to lever it up a few inches before it dropped leadenly back on his chest. _Someone had…_he swallowed, trying to relieve the drought in his mouth. Would he ever not be dry again?

"Stitches," he croaked, groping for the faint thread of a memory.

"Yeah. Stitches. You got plenty."

_Yeah. I…Dad said… _"Appendix." _Eureka. Dad had…hadn't he?_

"Yours is gone - it blew - hope you weren't too attached to it."

He half opened his eyes again, trying to place himself, but the world rushed past giddily and he closed them hastily, clutching at the surface underneath to keep from being tossed into the vortex. _Well, great. _He couldn't see, his voice wasn't worth crap…he tickled the surface under his hand with his finger tips. It was material and it felt rough and familiar, even through his calluses. A few of the jigsaw puzzle pieces shook together - not quite making a picture, but maybe a few recognizable shapes. He twisted his head, seeking a comfortable position. The sudden lightening of some only half-realized pain there made him wish he'd thought to do it sooner. _Okay. _He fumbled for Charlie, but something was still restraining his arm.

"Hospital?" His voice cracked.

"Yeah." The tilt at his side released suddenly, jouncing him, making him a little sick. "I'm getting you more water. You're in the hospital. What did you think?"

_You don't want to know. _The tilt was back, but now careful deduction brought him to the conclusion that it was Charlie, sitting next to him. On a bed. _Wow, way to go piecing together the clues - you're one hell of an investigator, Eppes - nothing much gets past you._ The plastic straw poked at him again and he took it tentatively. After a minute even that was too much work and he turned his head away. Besides, there were a lot of things he needed to know. He tried to catch at Charlie's arm again, this time snagged a sleeve. "Twilliger?"

"That's your serial rapist, right? You got him. According to all the news accounts, you shot him."

_Oh. Good. _Losing his tenuous grip on Charlie's sleeve, he let his hand drop. _That's right - Ready. Aim. Fire…Fire. Fire. Fire._ He shivered.

"You cold?"

_Yeah, actually, now that you mention it, AND hot, which is really kind of_…_wait, wait, this wasn't what I wanted to talk about…_he swallowed. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no sense of where he was in the time/space continuum, what day it was, what time of day…

"…arraigned…?" Man, he sounded bad - even to him.

"I don't really know the details…David warned Dad not to watch the news reports, so I have to sneak them when he's out of the room. At least I can read the papers in the cafeteria."

_Oh. Good man, David. But what the heck was Charlie doing watching them? _Okay, not that he thought he could really forbid Charlie to watch the evening news, but maybe he didn't need to watch it when it involved his brother? Naw, that wouldn't work either - that was how Charlie processed things: Research. Data collection. Analysis. You might as well ask him not to breathe as to stop. He squirmed uncomfortably, trying to think what might be on the news that Charlie would be better off not knowing. The FBI and the LAPD would try to suppress some stuff, but reporters tended to over-dramatize every little thing…and without him available to explain and tone it down some…he startled at the brush of a hand on his forehead.

"You know, you seem kind of hot. Not that you haven't been, but…maybe I should call somebody."

_No, no - don't do that_…_wait a minute…did Charlie just check my temperature…? _For some reason, that unexpected mental image made him chuckle.

Not that it was much of a laugh, but Charlie must have heard it, because he said, "What's funny?"

_Aw, no, not the kid brother voice _- _a little hurt, a little petulant, a little angry… c'mon, Charlie, don't be mad - not when I don't have the energy to explain…_he coughed to clear his throat. "Just - " he floundered for the right words and the breath to say them. "…me…you…"

"Oh." Charlie must have followed his cryptic non-explanation, because he felt the mattress sink again, and he could visualize him perched on the edge of the bed without even being able to look. "Yeah. Guess we're kinda lame at this, huh?"

_Yeah. That's it. _He felt himself smile, had some passing idea that he hadn't done that in quite a while.

"Drink some more."

_Sheesh. _He was starting to feel like he was being bottle fed. He concentrated on lifting his arm again, made a haphazard gesture to take the cup himself, must have overshot, because there was that tug on his inner arm, followed by an exclamation from Charlie and a wild rocking of the mattress. _Whoops. _But no crash this time. He thought about trying to look, but suddenly his head ached with tiredness. He heard Charlie's gusty sigh.

"Okay. That - uh - that was close. No dramatic gestures, okay? You're going to tear a big hole in your arm or something. And you don't need any new holes."

_Well, what do you expect? Seems like there are…things…stuck to every part of me…driving me nuts. And it's hot in here. Or cold. Or something_. _And it feels like there's still a car sitting on my leg. Um…there's not, right?_

Maybe there was, and nobody wanted to tell him - he tried to shift his leg, to see if he could move it, felt the blanket slither free. He heard Charlie's groan, and this time his voice sounded further away and more muffled - closer to the floor and filled with flustered exasperation.

"You know, I might be a lame nurse, but you - you're a worse patient! _Much_ worse."

Don coughed a laugh. _Okay, now this was more normal_.

"…not." Yeah, yeah, he probably was, but he couldn't give in that easy - it was a point of pride.

"You are." He could hear a flapping as Charlie shook out the blanket. "I think I heard the nurses drawing straws about who was going to get stuck with you."

His smile stretched into a grin and he turned his face into the pillow and let everything begin to fuzz pleasantly away. "…liar."

"Well, maybe they were using 'rock, paper, scissors' but it brings us to the same conclusion."

_Ouch. Ouch. Have mercy, Charlie, hurts to laugh…_

Charlie was silent now, for so long that Don began to wonder if he had read his mind, or if he really was mad. He wanted to ask, but everything was blurring again, his thoughts leap-frogging untidily in his brain. After a minute, he felt the weight of the blanket spread over him, was surprised and touched at how carefully it was tucked around him.

"You know what?" there was a different note in Charlie's voice now, calculatedly casual and…something else, and he tried to figure out what it meant. "I think I am going to get a nurse in here after all."

_TBC_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Sorry, sorry - I know I'm late posting. I knew that new job would catch up with me eventually, and I'm STILL not sure about where I broke this chapter…I'll try to post the next one sooner to make up for it._

Chapter 18

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, Mr. Eppes. The doctor will be by in about twenty minutes on rounds. He'll check it out then."

"But twenty minutes is a long time." _When you're in pain it is, anyway_. "If you'll just take a look at it, I - it doesn't look right to me."

"Is your brother complaining of pain?"

Charlie grit his teeth. "No, but - " _My brother doesn't say when he's in pain. I'm not sure he even recognizes when he's in pain - that doesn't mean anything. _

The nurse gave him a tolerant smile. "I know it sounds like a long time, but the doctor will be here before you know it. As long as it's not a matter of life and death, you just need to be patient."

That reminded him of what Don was always saying to him…_you just have to be patient, Charlie, and let us do our job_… and somehow, hearing Don say it in his mind made him more impatient than ever. "How do you know it isn't a matter of life and death unless you look?" he pointed out. "If someone could just take a look - "

"The doctor will be by soon. He'll be here before you know it." The nurse smiled a smile that said clearly that this conversation was over.

Charlie frowned.

He should have stayed with Don and just rung the buzzer. They had to come when you rang that, didn't they? He'd thought it would be faster this way, but…his frown deepened. He had just assumed that they would listen.

He was, he realized with mild surprise, accustomed to being listened to - whether lecturing, or teaching, or consulting, he was used to being accepted as an authority - a man whose words counted for something. Even at an age when most people were brushed aside and not taken seriously, his words had carried weight - at least when he was talking about math, and, let's face it, that had been a good deal of the time. Now to be casually dismissed by a girl about the same age as one of his students…well, it was…disconcerting.

Still, talking to students was what he did. He took a deep breath and tried another tact. "I know I'm not an expert on this, but I think his temperature is up, and his leg looks - it looks really bad. Since they've been doing so much to keep his temperature down, surely a rise merits some attention?" _There. Just like lecturing. Walk the student through, show them how easy it is, how clear, if you only follow step by step…_

The nurse gave him another perfunctory smile. "A temperature will often spike in the late afternoon. I'm sure there's no reason for alarm."

Charlie felt an ungentlemanly urge to shake her. What could he do now? What would Dad do? Dad had a way of digging in and demanding action that seemed to produce results. He could go looking for him, but that would be more time wasted, and Charlie had an uncomfortable conviction that all was not well with his brother. He wanted help for him _now_. They were in a hospital - he should be _able_ to get help for him now - not twenty minutes from now!

His frown must have morphed into a scowl, because the nurse added, "I'll send the doctor in as soon as he gets here, Mr. Eppes."

Okay, so playing nice wasn't getting him anywhere…he crossed his arms. "It's Dr. Eppes," he corrected flatly. "Actually."

Now she was the one to look disconcerted, and Charlie felt a guilty stab of satisfaction.

"Oh." She hesitated. "I didn't know - I suppose - I could page Dr. Gillworth…?"

Charlie gave her a smile as perfunctory as her own had been. "Why don't you."

000

"So, Don, how are you feeling?" Charlie watched from his chosen post near the head of the bed as the doctor glanced at the list of vitals the nurse handed him. "I hear you're having some discomfort?"

_Discomfort. _Charlie rolled his eyes. And he thought the FBI was good with euphemisms - they had nothing on the medical profession. He saw Don half-open his eyes and gesture vaguely.

"You seem a little more alert."

"We had - a conversation," Charlie interjected. "He seemed - pretty rational."

Don tried to pry his eyes apart again. "…right here, Charlie," he grumbled.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Charlie reached down to touch his shoulder.

_Rational. _He made a face. He had once accused Don of being too rational - too detached. He could never forget how shocked and hurt Don had looked in that split second before he got angry. When he had walked away instead of staying to fight he'd realized how thoroughly he had wounded him. He still couldn't think about it without feeling bad. "It's his - uh - _your_ leg. How's your leg feel, Don?"

Don's lashes fluttered without opening and he groaned. "Like…there was…_car _on it…"

The doctor smiled faintly. "Well, let's take a look…" He folded back the blanket.

Charlie winced, his eyes automatically sliding away. He made a face and forced his eyes back. _Ugh. _His nose wrinkled at the smell as the doctor peeled the bandage away and leaned over to murmur something to the nurse. That _couldn't _be good…

"Looks a little more swollen - " Dr. Gillworth touched a spot critically. "Does it hurt here?"

Don grimaced, made an indistinct sound that committed to nothing. Charlie poked him insistently in the shoulder and his eyes struggled open again, clouded with morphine and mild annoyance. After a pause he conceded faintly, "…yeah."

The doctor nodded, adjusting his grip. "How about here?"

Charlie jumped at Don's sudden shout of pain, followed by a muffled but heartfelt curse. He grabbed onto Don's bicep, not sure which one of them he was clinging for, as Don's back arched, then collapsedagainst the mattress, his breath ragged and spattered with a soft, muddled monologue of expletives.

Charlie blotted at his damp upper lip with the back of his free hand, was surprised to find it shaking. "Hey." He tightened his grip on Don's arm, drew in a breath to steady his voice. "What would Mom say about the language?"

"What on earth is going on?"

Charlie twisted his head toward the door, not sure whether he was distressed or relieved to see his father there. "Um - "

Dr. Gillworth answered for him. "We're going to prepare Don for a little procedure here," he said evenly.

Alan let the door swing closed behind him. "What, another one? What's wrong?"

The doctor didn't look up from scrawling something on one of those ubiquitous clipboards. "I want to drain his leg. Try not to be alarmed, Mr. Eppes - we knew we might have to do this. We just wanted to give it a chance to clear up on its own, or for him to gain a little more ground first. It's a simple enough procedure - we'll use a local since I don't want to sedate him any more than he is already with a head injury and, as you say, he's not good with anesthesia." He smiled at Don. "I think ultimately, it's going to make him feel a lot better."

Alan peered at the exposed leg, then rested a hand lightly on Don's head, his face scrunched in troubled lines. "I wasn't gone for ten minutes! I thought you weren't due to stop by for at least another ten!"

Dr. Gillworth handed his clipboard to the nurse. "Your other son had me paged."

Alan raised his brows in Charlie's direction and Charlie shifted. "I wasn't trying to be an alarmist, I - um - I just thought - "

"No, you were right," Dr. Gillworth looked at the nurse this time, who flushed and moved toward the door with her clipboard of instructions. "Sepsis is something we watch for carefully with peritonitis, and he's fighting it from two directions. You should always feel free to contact me right away." The nurse dodged hastily through the door and the doctor smiled apologetically at Charlie. "Wendy's a good girl, but she gets a little too attached to structure. Hospitals need structure, but they need to be reactive too."

Charlie nodded. He couldn't really find it in his heart to feel sorry for her - it was just what he tried to teach his students: if you got too attached to the outcome, you weren't open to the other possibilities. You missed things. And she was dealing with human lives. "I appreciate you coming right away."

Dr. Gillworth nodded, poking his pen back into his breast pocket, leaving Don's leg exposed to the air. Charlie secretly wished he'd cover it back up again and that made him feel bad, so he lightened his grip on Don's arm and patted by way of an apology.

"All right, Don, I'm going to send someone in to prep you." The doctor glanced from Alan to Charlie. "You can spend a few minutes with him if you like." He peeled off his gloves and stuffed them in another pocket. "By the way, Dr. Eppes, I didn't realize we were colleagues - what is your specialty?"

Alan glanced at Charlie in surprise and Charlie looked up from Don, arranging his face into neutral lines. He cleared his throat. "Uh - Applied Mathematics," he offered with complete sangfroid.

The doctor stared for a moment, then snorted a laugh. "I'll be back."

_TBC_


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Not a long one…starting the wind-down. _

Chapter 19

This time it was different, less like fighting his way out of a nightmare, more like trying to climb out of a big, black, empty hole. He couldn't immediately remember anything, then he latched onto some muddled memory of the doctor asking him to count backward and wondering if Charlie would find that numeric reversal insulting or intriguing…and then this…now. Whenever that was. He screwed up his eyes, which seemed to be gummed shut with something, then made a Herculean effort at dragging them open. He wondered if they actually did creak with disuse, or if that was just his imagination. The world didn't zip past this time, it just bounced a little, then fuzzed, rimmed with indistinct softness. He closed his eyes again, blinked to clear them.

"Hey." _Charlie. _Well, at least his hearing seemed to be working. "How you feeling?"

_Six feet under. _

Pretty sure that Charlie wouldn't appreciate the imagery, he didn't say it out loud - just licked his lips instead. The plastic straw magically materialized, bumping his lower lip. He took a cautious sip. "Where's Dad?" Okay, his voice really did creak with disuse

"Talking to the doctor." The straw disappeared. "He's going to start to take it pretty personally that you only seem to be awake and talking when he's out of the room."

"Yeah. Well. Morphine…" he tugged automatically on his arm, felt something give and then rebound. "…overkill, huh?" He blinked at his forearm, followed the line running from it to the side of the bed.

"I don't know. The doctor says that peritonitis is extremely painful."

He tried to shift his gaze to Charlie, who seemed to be watching him with disconcerting intensity, moved one hand under the safety of the covers until it touched the bandage covering his right side. "No comment," he muttered after a minute, pulling curiously on his arm again. "Whazzat?"

"Oh, that? That's something Larry and I rigged up. You kept pulling your IV over…an interesting physics problem, actually."

"Yeah?" he tugged again, could just make out the shadow of something as it dipped then bounced back.

"There's a safety feature, of course - if you pull hard enough, it will snap free."

"Huh." He swallowed down a laugh, then frowned. "Larry was here?" The rasp in his voice hurt his own ears.

"Uh-hm." The straw was back, and he tried another sip. "Few hours ago. Do you even have any idea what time it is?"

This time Don did manage a parody of a laugh. "Not even all that sure what planet it is…" he murmured.

"Well, I can help you with that. It's still Earth."

"Mm. Thought Amita was…the astrophys…" _'Physicist'_ was evidently a little more than his clumsy tongue was going to handle right now. Well, Charlie knew what he meant. He became dimly aware of faint voices in the background, and music, and gunfire. He squinted, automatically trying to find the television, saw a grey, square-like object that might be it. "What you watchin'?"

"Oh - um - nothing…"

Don frowned. He couldn't see well, but he could hear, and that sure didn't sound like the _Discovery Channel_. The music was familiar…he turned his head to get a look at Charlie, gulping a little in surprise as he rediscovered a tender spot on the back of his skull.

Okay - now he recognized it…"…you watch James Bond…?"

"I - there wasn't much on - and watching you sleep isn't as exciting as you might think."

Don maneuvered one hand to his eyes, pleased to find that his limbs seemed to be a little more organized and obedient now. "No…that's cool, I just…" he tried to rub away a pervasive pressure there, "…didn't know."

"Well, it's not - I mean, it can actually be pretty interesting - "

Don chuckled from behind his hand. "You mean the women."

"I meant the inventions - some of them are really - quite interesting."

Don opened one eye at him and tried to focus. "You mean you didn't notice the women…?"

"Of course I did. They're - well. You've seen them."

"Yeah." Don sighed. "Which one…?"

"_To Russia With Love_."

"Nice."

"Oh, yeah."

Don gave up on trying to make out the screen and closed his eyes again. That's all right, he'd just picture it in his head…it'd be a big improvement over his dreams lately…

"Still, the inventions are pretty cool. You could use some of those."

Don opened an eye again, regarding Charlie's hazy outline. "…kidding, right?"

"No, I mean it - today's fantasies are tomorrow's technology! It may seem outrageous now, but I can give you dozens of examples - "

_Uh-oh - lecture starting..._Don closed both eyes and let his hand rest on top of them, manipulating his fingers experimentally against the stiffness of the wrappings.

"…like that laser shooting toothpick. Imagine what you could do with that on the job."

Don let his hand fall, fingering the bandage on his side again. "…get called on the carpet for using undue force…?"

"Very funny. You have no imagination, that's the problem."

"Get back to the girls - I'll show you plenty of imagination."

Charlie huffed. "You wait. You'll see. Some day you'll be using something like that and be glad to have it."

"…you kidding? That's just…hype." Don's smile was split by a yawn. "I got much better stuff than James Bond."

"You - you're wrong. You just wait. You'll see."

"Naw…" Don swallowed the yawn this time, didn't even try to open his eyes, burrowing his cheek into the pillow. "He's got nothin'. Not a single mathematical genius. Poor sucker."

000

When Alan peeked in the room a short time later, he found it shadowed in semi-darkness. He glanced from the bed to the chair next to it where Charlie was sitting, seemingly deep in thought. He entered quietly and approached the bed. "He still asleep?"

Charlie looked up as if he'd just noticed him. "Um - now. He woke up for a little while and talked."

Alan lifted his hands in exasperation. "Of course he did."

"Sounded a lot more like himself."

"Well, the doctor thinks he's doing well, all things considered. Or, to be more accurate, he referred to him as 'one tough dude'. So I guess your calculations weren't far off."

Charlie smiled a little.

Alan touched Don's cheek measuringly, let his hand drift to smooth back the thick, dark hair. "So. What did you two talk about?"

Charlie shrugged. "Oh - nothing special. Girls."

Alan raised his brows. "Really? That sounds hopeful."

"Yeah. Don't get any ideas."

"Ideas are all I have, my boy. Unfortunately. Surrounded by all these pretty doctors and nurses, you'd think _you'd_ get a few ideas."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I've been a little distracted."

Alan's smile faltered. "I know." He picked at the covers, eased them up to Don's chin. "So - uh - since my son seems to be avoiding me, even in sleep, I was going to go home and try a shower, before they actually throw us out of here or try to hose us down. Thought you might like to do the same."

"Um…" Charlie's eyes drifted to Don, then away again. "I - think I'm going to sit here for a little while. But you go ahead."

"You sure?" Alan looked at him in surprise. "Because, nothing personal, but you could use a shower yourself."

Charlie grinned. "I know. I'll grab a cab later. Right now I'm - I'm working on something I want to finish."

"Really." Alan tilted his head at him. "You mean, using those books over there? The closed ones on the table? Or maybe the laptop that's zipped in its case."

"I'm - not using those. Yet. I happen to be thinking very deeply - I don't need books for that. I'm even somewhat known for it."

"I've heard." Alan narrowed his eyes at him, perplexed and a little amused. "You know, it really is okay to leave him alone now. He doesn't need someone with him every minute."

"It always was okay," Charlie countered, pointedly rising and picking up one of the books. "They have a full-time nursing staff."

"Touché." Alan blew out a breath. "Okay - if you're sure…"

"Yeah," Charlie opened the book, made a great show of looking for something in it. "I'll just - sit here for a little while. I'll be along eventually."

"All right. I'll be back. Use the cot if you need it."

Charlie nodded brightly, offering a brief wave.

Alan pushed through the door, shaking his head and muttering something about children. When curiosity overcame him and he eased it silently open again a minute later, he saw that Charlie had closed the book and was just sitting, his arms crossed over it. He watched him for a minute, but everything seemed to be all right, and he was beginning to feel guilty about spying. Besides, he really did need that shower.

He let the door close gently, shaking his head. But he'd sure give a lot to know why Charlie was just sitting there in the dark. And what the heck that smile of his was all about.

_TBC_


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: It's coming, TwistoftheScarlettRose. Probably in the next chapter or the one following. Sit tight._

Chapter 20

He felt the familiar bite on his forearm and let the arm drop. He knew he wasn't supposed to do that - people kept telling him to stop - but somehow or other, he couldn't quite help it. It was…irksome. Part of him linked that tube in his arm with all his problems - the slow clumsiness of his movements, the even slower drag on his thoughts, as if he was trying to reach the rest of the world from deep under water. Morphine, Charlie had said. Seemed kind of intense for a little…well, he couldn't quite remember what Charlie had called it, but it seemed like too much anyway.

Not that it hadn't hurt…he had vivid memories of being trapped in a hot envelope of savage pain, of a throbbing pressure building in his leg, as if it was trying to burst through the skin. Even now he felt as though someone had jumped up and down on his insides in a pair of sports cleats and then bundled them carelessly back inside, and his leg's insistent pressure, though eased, lingered as a raw torment. Still, morphine? Come on - that was pretty serious stuff. Mom had used morphine, toward the end. When he thought of how she had suffered, it just seemed like he should be able to make due with less. Maybe he could talk them into cutting back on it. _Yeah, good luck with that, Eppes - cause you've never been more eloquent._ He pulled again without thinking.

"You know that isn't good for you."

That was NOT a voice he had been expecting and he froze, wondering what dream world he had wandered into now. Reality had been tenuous at best, and try as he might, he couldn't quite work out which things he had been told, which he remembered, and which he had simply dreamed.

"That's better." There was an unmistakable and familiar smile in the voice.

It had to be a dream - that was the only explanation. Well, he might as well enjoy it. "Nadine?" His eyes were glued shut, but his voice eked out a sad imitation of its usual self.

"That's right. Your father and Charlie decided to clean up a little, but they didn't like to leave you alone, so I volunteered. I have this lovely file to work on anyway."

_Oh, no, no, no_…he had had many fantasies involving Nadine, but absolutely none of them had included him wearing a hospital gown. Evidently his car wasn't the only thing that had careened out of control when his appendix burst…wait a minute…file…"Twilliger?"

"That's right."

A hundred questions spun in his head, about the interrogation, the preponderance of evidence, the planned line of prosecution, but none of them seemed prepared to marshal themselves into practical, useful sentences. Frustrated, he yanked on his arm again, stilled at a silken pressure along his forearm, followed by an amused drawl.

"You are just not a good boy, are you, Special Agent Eppes?"

He felt his mouth turn up in a smile, despite everything. _No arguing with that. _But he had more important things on his mind. "Got him? Right?"

"I don't see why not - solid work in here. The DA wants the death penalty."

Don felt himself relax. _Yeah. That worked. _"You - okay with that?"

"Me? Oh, yes. Even before he went and made it kind of personal."

He shifted a little to quiet the growling pain in his leg, felt his forehead bunch in a frown. Nadine didn't know any of the victims, did she? Or wouldn't she have to recuse herself? "The victims…? You knew one…?"

There was a pause, then the silken pressure moved from his arm to rest on his brow, the thumb smoothing out the frown gathered there. "Go back to sleep, Don. You need your rest."

He could hear the laughter carefully suppressed beneath the words, couldn't quite figure out what was so funny, but his attention was drawn away by a clean, flowery fragrance that reminded him of something…_oh, yeah. Lavender. _

Kim used to put lavender in their sheets and they had always smelled like that. There were things he really missed about living with a woman - aside from the obvious. The sheets were one - Kim had had a passion for nice bed linens, and had introduced him to 300 thread count Egyptian cotton. At first he had laughed - _you honestly telling me that somebody counts the threads in these sheets…? _But they had proved addictive. His heart still ached a little when he remembered early morning nuzzlings among the faint, fresh scent of lavender, the cool, creamy fabric sliding underneath.

When he reached California, he had missed them. Had always meant to get himself a set, but somehow he had never got around to it. He should. They would be nice after these hospital sheets, which must be about - what - six thread count - and reeked of antiseptic.

"Smells nice."

Wait a minute, wait a minute - had he actually said that out loud? Man, didn't his mouth used to have an off button? Now thoroughly irritated, he gave another pull at the offending IV.

Another small, silken hand slid into his palm, holding it neatly and firmly in place. "I'll make a note that you like that one…" Nadine's voice had a purring, soothing edge now, and the gentle rubbing of her other hand on his forehead was hypnotic.

But he had a lot of other questions he wanted to ask about the case: he'd ask them too, except those lousy drugs had turned him into an idiot…the drugs, and Nadine's nearness and scent and gentle caress, which were all kind of…distracting. He opened his mouth to try his most pressing questions anyway, was disgusted when the words came out in a tired, satisfied sigh instead. _Well…damn. _

His last thought as sleep took him back under was that the sense of smell really was the strongest memory link…and that hopefully somebody had at least had the sense to make sure that he'd had a shave.

000

When he woke again, the lavender was gone, overridden by the pervasive smell of antiseptic. He wrinkled his nose, the scent tickling something at the back of his brain.

Something else was different too - the heat that had simmered just under his skin seemed less intense. _Hm. _He took a slow inventory. His leg seemed stiff and permanently clenched in pain. His head still ached, but with something less than the nauseating pressure that had pushed so relentlessly against his temples for so long. His abdomen was the worst of it, but even that seemed a little more manageable.

He had a vague sense that he was alone, and for the first time in a while. He turned his head carefully on the pillow, bit back a soft curse as he found the sore spot, fingered his scalp to explore the damage. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he found the edges of the bump. Funny how he could never seem to remember about that - it felt pretty memorable. He noticed the bandage on his hand as he withdrew it and frowned. Now, how the heck had he done that? Oh, wait…digging for his gun. He'd probably left a whole lot of DNA on the pavement.

He ground the heels of his hands in his eyes, trying to loosen the tight band around his temples and clear his vision. When he tried again, it wasn't all that much better. He blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings, then smiled.

Okay, so he wasn't alone. How had he missed the snoring? If he squinted, he could make out the solid figure of his father, sprawled on the cot, limbs scattered in sleep. _He must be pretty tired. Better not wake him_.

He wrinkled his nose again, rubbed at it to chase the smell away: that mixed aroma of antiseptic and starch and the indescribable, unmistakable odor of illness. It reminded him of something, but what exactly slid away before he could name it. How long had he been lying here, anyway?

Suddenly desperate for a moment of independence and privacy, he groped for the bed controls, poked clumsily at them until the head of the bed began to rise with a soft hum. It provoked a surprising rush of vertigo, and he had to shut his eyes again for a minute and let the world re-balance itself.

_Phew. It'd sounded so easy. _He rested a tentative hand on the dressing on his right side. There was a warning pull there, but nothing unbearable. _Okay. Bad news is, this could really hurt. Good news is, I'm drugged half out of my mind anyway_. He glanced at the cot and his sleeping father. The smart thing to do, probably, would be to wake him up and ask for help, or to ring for the nurse. _What the hell - nobody ever said I was the smart one. Easy does it…_

He cautiously peeled back the covers and eased one leg over the side of the bed. _So far, so good. _He looked more dubiously at his bad leg. That would be the tricky part, because aside from the steady grumble of pain, it felt as though someone had removed his leg all together and left a telephone pole in its place. He used his hands to jimmy the leg off the cushion it was resting on, winced as it hit the mattress a little more abruptly than he'd hoped. _Ow. Still. Progress_. Encouraged, he slid it carefully across the mattress until it dropped over the side of the bed and dangled there like a dead thing. Then he clung to the sheets to pull himself erect and independent of the support of the bed. And nearly toppled forward onto his face.

He tightened his grip on the sheets as he wobbled back and forth, leaned forward until his head nearly rested on his knees and the room stabilized. Breathing in short gusts, he finally released the sheets with one shaky hand and wrapped his palm around his eyes, slid it around to the back of his head to calm the suddenly awakened volcano there. _Okay, okay, you're doing fine…okay, maybe not fine, but you're not on the floor yet_…he straightened his back by inches, felt both a little queasy and a little smug as he managed to remain upright. _See? Nothing to it. A little exercise will do you a world of good. _

A faint draft tickled his back. _Oh, yeah - probably want a robe…_a squinting inventory of the area nearby failed to reveal one, and he sucked in his lip, momentarily thwarted. Well, he'd never get a sleeve around the IV anyway - better just take the blanket. He pulled the blanket crumpled at the bottom of the bed around his shoulders, shrugged more deeply into it when it proved to feel surprisingly cozy.

_Now for the tough part. Standing. _He'd messed up his leg once on a slide into home plate, so he knew that the first step was the charm. He wrapped his hand around the IV as an ersatz crutch and dropped his weight down onto his feet. When he thought they might hold him, he tried to straighten away from the support of the bed at his back. The warning stab in his side made him jerk in surprise and the IV took on a life of its own, shooting across the floor and taking him with it, a trip that stopped abruptly only steps later when they both met the wall with a thud. He leaned his face into the wall and tried to breathe through the pain. _Possibly…(breath)…just possibly…(breath)…this was a very...(breath)...bad...(breath) ...idea... _

When he thought he could risk releasing his flat-palmed grip on the wall, he leaned into his shoulder and peeked cautiously at the cot. His father snorted in his sleep and rolled over. Don grinned. _Wow - Mom wasn't kidding. Sleeps like the dead. _He let the wall take a little more of his weight. _Of course, I guess I know why he's so tired. _That thought brought the return of his restlessness and he reached for the IV stand again. At least that little side trip had done the trick of getting it free from Charlie and Larry's contraption. Must be that safety Charlie had talked about. He squinted at it. What had they used - bungee chords? Maybe he could ask them to add a hand brake - for safe IV traveling. Well, he'd gotten this far - no point in turning back now. And the wall would come in handy.

Pressing his shoulder deeper into the wall, he let it support him as far as the door, one leg dragging behind. The door was a trickier, since it meant he had to give up the wall's support for a minute, but clinging to the lintel on one side and shouldering open the door on the other got him through. He immediately found the outside wall with his back again and rested against it, breathing heavily and looking around. He broke into a grin as he took in the hallway, lights subdued, thin of people, but - well - a change. Mission accomplished. It felt like he'd found his way back into the real world again.

He tightened his grip on the IV, shivering a little under a thin layer of sweat that now coated his skin. Just a short walk, and then he'd head back before anybody missed him. There were a lot of things he wanted to think about, and he needed some space.

He shuffled his way around the corner and discovered a small waiting alcove, furnished with a sofa and coffee table facing a large, arched window. Abruptly out of steam, he decided this would be a good place to rest for a minute or two.

_Huh._ Lowering himself without tearing something would be the trick. He got a fresh grip on the IV pole, jammed it into the sofa so that it couldn't take it into its head to roll free again, and spread his other hand on the arm rest, lowering himself as slowly as he could before his arms gave out and dumped him unceremoniously on the seat cushions. He swore, wrapping a forearm guardedly around his abdomen until the fire there subsided some, then dropped his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. _Yeah. Okay. Hurts. But it doesn't seem like anything's been permanently damaged._

He stretched out his leg, chewing his lip. Be nice if he could get that elevated - say, the coffee table. He tried to lift it - it was hard to say which was unhappier with the idea, the wound in his gut, or the leg itself. _Aw, what the hell - stretched out is good enough._ He drew the blanket closer and half-opened his eyes. From this position, he could just make out the washed grey of the sky. _Must be early. Dawn._

_Okay. _He knew how he was physically, how about the other stuff? He poked surreptitiously at his feelings, trying to trace the underlying sense of sadness. Well, he'd nearly screwed up a major arrest - he'd have to answer for that. He'd operated a firearm while impaired. And it didn't look like he'd done his family any favors, either.

He let his eyes slide closed again, rubbed absentmindedly at his nose. The smell wasn't as strong out here, but it still lingered in the air. His eyes popped open as his brain clicked. _Oh. Yeah. _He squeezed the lids tightly shut again, suddenly beyond tired, weighted down with sorrow.

Smell really was the strongest memory link.

_TBC_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: I don't know what to tell you - the characters do whatever they want - they never ask me what I think._

Chapter 21

_The problem with hospitals_…scratch that, there were a lot of things he didn't like about hospitals - _ONE of the problems with hospitals, was that they involved too much down time, too much quiet, too much space to think_. He found his mind toying favorably with the image of armed assailants rappelling through the arched window before him and giving him something else to focus on. Of course, he wasn't armed, and he didn't have back up, and he wasn't exactly set up for evasive action, so it was probably just as well that wasn't likely to happen, but dwelling on it gave his traitorous thoughts a diversion. Probably the smart thing to do would be to return to his room, but having come this far, he found himself curiously unable to move. Besides, it was just too embarrassing to admit that he hadn't thought to note the room number. Man, he really needed to get free of these drugs.

He watched the sky as rose tinted the greyness. He could try to get up. Or he could just sit here until somebody stopped by to offer a blood transfusion. _First rule of tactical planning - never go in without a plan on how to get out. _Of course, he'd thought that he did have a plan - but he'd badly miscalculated. _They flunk you for that, rookie. Better come up with a new plan._ _A nap sounded like a good one. Maybe a little rest would bring inspiration. _He slumped deeper into the sofa and let his eyes close. Of course, he'd been napping already for…he had no idea how long. Days, maybe. They needed to post more calendars around here.

The faint sounds of the hospital in motion dimmed. Maybe he really was going to sleep. Too bad, he had kind of wanted to see the sun rise. He had no idea how much time passed before he felt the cushions sink next to him.

_Busted. _

He didn't have to open his eyes to know who it was, even though he hadn't been dogged by that particular shadow for about twenty years.

After a minute, a hand slid under his heel, lifted and deposited it on the coffee table. _Better. _"Thanks." There was no response, so a second later he added, "You know, a really good brother would have brought coffee."

There was a pause, then a slightly disgruntled voice grumbled, "Coffee's dehydrating."

_Ha. Knew you couldn't stay silent. Not without a piece of chalk in your hand. _But instead he murmured, "That's gratitude. Who snuk you ice cream that time you got grounded for writing that Reimann thing all over the dining room wall?"

There was a longer pause, then he felt a curve of warm Styrofoam bump his knuckles. _Too easy. _He opened his palm and accepted the cup, guided it awkwardly to his lips. He recognized the aroma immediately, but took a sip anyway before remarking uncomplainingly, "That's not coffee."

"In your line of work, we call that 'cutting a deal'."

Don chuckled, handing the cup back.

"And it was the Goldbach Conjecture, not the Reimann Hypothesis."

"Yeah, I always get those two mixed up."

This time, it was Charlie who gave a reluctant laugh. He took a sip and handed the Styrofoam cup back to Don. "I was gone for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. You couldn't wait twenty, thirty minutes?"

_Wow. Pretty inexact figures, for Charlie. He must be really upset._ "I didn't know that," Don pointed out, taking a drink and returning the cup.

"Okay," Charlie conceded. "Okay, but - why - ?"

Don closed his eyes with a sigh. "To see if I could, I guess?" _That was mostly the truth, anyway._ He tried to push himself a little more erect. "Look, Charlie, I know for you it's over and everything - to me, it's not so clear cut. It's like I'm stuck there in my head. I'm just trying to - figure out where I am."

Charlie nudged his arm and he automatically reached for the cup.

"You couldn't just ask?"

"Not that simple, buddy."

"Too much theory, not enough empirical data."

"Something like that."

"You could have really hurt yourself."

"Didn't." _Knock wood_.

"Dad's gonna be - seriously ticked."

"So don't tell him."

"Now, _that's_ going to be simple. How do you expect to get back?"

"Same way I got here." _Brave words, Eppes. Let's see if you can live up to them_.

Charlie's skeptical snort echoed his own thoughts.

Don smiled faintly in response. "Just give me a couple of minutes and I'll be ready." The sky was streaked with salmon now. _One thing about the LA smog - made for a pretty sunrise. _He took another sip and passed the cup back to Charlie.

"Yeah. You keep telling yourself that."

"You probably didn't think I could get this far, either."

"I've got some pretty strong thoughts on whether or not you should have even tried."

"Okay, okay." That was another thing he hated about hospitals - they sucked away the smallest sense of personal privacy: every inch of your body was fair game, every sound you made, and thanks to the drugs, every thought. "I wanted - like - five minutes to myself. You can understand that, right?"

Charlie sighed.

Don took the sigh as assent. "I'm just working on putting myself back together. Sometimes that involves tearing some things apart again first. I think I heard you say that, huh?"

This time Charlie clicked his tongue in disgust. "_Now_ you listen to what I say."

"Hey, I always listen."

"Could have fooled me."

"Can't have you getting a big head."

"Yeah," Charlie tooka swallow from the cup. "Smart words might work with me, but if one of the things you 'tore apart to put yourself together again' is your stitches, I don't think Dad is going to be so easy to appease."

Don sighed silently. _True. _Maybe he had just wanted to feel like he had some say in where he went and what he did. Fact was, he didn't. "Yeah, yeah…" he agreed dispiritedly.

Charlie frowned, then pressed the back of his fingers against Don's cheek.

"Hey!" Don pulled away. "What's that for?"

"You gave in pretty easy."

"Yeah, well - it's not like I've got any real choices here."

Charlie's face softened. "Here. I'll let you finish the hot chocolate."

Don took the cup wordlessly, threw it back like a shot of tequila and closed his eyes. After a minute, he felt Charlie trying to pry the Styrofoam cup out of his grip and released it.

"Say, Don - you asleep?" Charlie's voice had dropped to a whisper.

_Man, **that** brought back memories. If he opened his eyes, would Charlie be three feet tall and dragging a stuffed animal? _He made a non-committal noise in his throat.

"Something I've been wondering."

_Yeah, great. Long as it doesn't involve that Goldbach Conjecture_….

"I read everything I could about the arrest - Twilliger didn't have a gun, right?"

_This was definitely not three-foot Charlie with the stuffed animal riding shotgun. Kind of a pity. _Don shook his head. "Not his MO."

"But you had a gun."

He thumbed the bandages that bound his fingers. "Yeah. Wasn't very accessible, though."

"But you shot him. All the news reports said so."

"Yeah, well, that - " Don's brow furrowed a little as his leg suggested that the walking had been a premature idea at best. "That was probably the damned luckiest shot of my career. Wouldn't want to have to try it twice."

"And Megan and David and the LAPD - they must have had guns."

Don opened his eyes. He suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew where this was going. He rubbed at a pounding that had started up in his forehead. "Not - they were disarmed at that point."

"I guess I just can't figure out - why? What would make them put down their guns?"

Don tried to ignore the ice spreading in the pit of his stomach. "Let's just say - he got the upper hand. Let's put it that way."

"I - just can't imagine - "

"Yeah, well, that's the thing, Charlie - maybe you don't want to. Just - just leave it, okay?" He tried to move his leg, to lower it from the coffee table. It slid an inch, but that was all. He stared. There was no way he was going to be able to get it down without help. He was as trapped as if he was still pinned by the car. Didn't that just figure. He ran his hands over his face. "You know how we hold stuff back from the press sometimes? There's a good reason for it."

"You're saying I don't have _clearance_…?"

The note of hurt and skepticism in Charlie's voice made him groan inwardly. "_No_. I'm saying - once you have pictures in your head, you can't always get them out just because you want to, okay? So just - leave it."

"You don't think I can handle it."

"I don't think you should _have_ to - that's not the same thing!" To hell with this - he was getting that leg down and getting out of here if it killed him. He tried giving the leg a push with his hand. A warning stab lit across his thigh. _Great._

"Maybe I should get to make that choice for myself!" Charlie shot back. "I've seen some pretty gruesome things now, and guess what, big brother, I survived!"

Don set his jaw and gripped his leg to settle it down. _How the heck had things gone downhill so fast?_ To make it worse, he was stuck here, well and truly - he was going nowhere. The only thing he'd accomplished in trying was to drench himself in sweat.

"Yeah, well, this gruesome thing involved me - I thought that might make it a little different - forgive me if I was wrong." He let out a breath. "Jesus, Charlie, _I'd_ forget it if I could - I wish that you'd just - trust me for once." He dragged an arm across his forehead to clear the sweat from his eyes, breathing slow to try and chase away a sudden giddiness.

There was a silence, then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and something pushed into his fingers. He squinted to find a handkerchief there, gratefully pressed his face into it.

"You want some water?"

He shook his head.

"You should. You're supposed to stay hydrated."

"Fine, good - whatever makes you happy…" he mumbled through the handkerchief. He felt the return of the Styrofoam cup to his palm a short time later, cool this time. He sipped slowly, mused that he _was_ dry, now that Charlie mentioned it. After he finished, he handed the cup to Charlie and sank back into the couch.

"You okay?" He didn't answer - didn't know where the hell to start, even. "I guess this is what you mean by 'collateral damage'."

That got his attention. "What, me?" He caught Charlie's nod just barely, suddenly so tired he could hardly see straight. "Naw - I'm more - a casualty or something. I'm a volunteer. Collateral damage is…the innocents. The victims. People damaged in the crossfire…like you and Dad, I guess." He winced as he thought it, and not entirely from the returning awareness of his varied pains.

"I don't feel damaged."

"Right. How many classes you missed already, hanging out here?"

Charlie paused. "You'd be amazed how much teaching you can actually perform right online," he said at last.

"Right." Don rubbed restlessly at his ear.

They sat in awkward silence, then, "It's not - I do trust you."

Don sighed through his nose, running a thumb moodily along his lower lip.

"I do," Charlie insisted. "I just can't - help trying to make sense of things. Wanting to know."

This time, Don's sigh was heavier and more resigned.

"I mean, figuring puzzles is what I do. I - I just can't help trying to work out the answers: why a bunch of trained law enforcement officers would give up their weapons - to a killer who had no weapon."

Don looked at the handkercief in his hands, scrubbed his palms with it. "Sure he did," he said wearily. "He had me."

_TBC_


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: I know - finals week. Finally over and back on track. I'm not sure how many chapters left, because I'm never sure how they're going to break down until I fuss around. Maybe four? One way or another, I'll never be able to figure out how this story got so much longer than I originally intended. Every time I tried to finish, I would see a big hole that needed filling. Hate that._

Chapter 22

"Well. Good morning."

He blinked heavily. These disjunctures in time were beginning to make him a little crazy. But it was still the rough fabric of the couch under his cheek, even though the light in the alcove had changed, spilling brightly over everything. He was almost convinced he had dreamed his encounter with Charlie, until he spotted a battered Styrofoam cup on the coffee table. He fisted his eyes, which felt gummy with sleep. "Dad?"

"That's right. If Mohammed won't come to the mountain…"

He blinked again. "Huh?"

"Never mind. It's good to see you with your eyes actually open."

He sniffed. "Part way, anyway." He was trying to figure out why he was still sitting here, and exactly how much trouble he was in. "How'd…? Um…?"

"Charlie."

"Tattletale."

Alan smiled. "Well, that's what younger brothers are for."

"Tell me about it."

"Besides, he had no idea how to get you back to bed. I think his exact words were along the lines that 'he ain't heavy, he's my brother' was obviously meant strictly metaphorically."

Don snorted a gust of amusement, reached up to massage a crick in his neck. "Still don't know how he tracked me down. Just like when we were kids - I used to wonder sometimes if he had me implanted with some kind of radioactive tracking device - it was uncanny how he could always find me."

Alan nodded wisely, turning a page of his book. "With Charlie, you never know." He scanned the page without glancing up. "So, are you going to tell me what you _are_ doing out here?"

_Here we go. _He decided to try for offhand. "Just - a little exercise. After abdominal surgery, they like to get you up and on your feet as soon as possible."

"Hm. That sounds like the voice of experience."

Don almost swore at his carelessness, cast an accusing glare at the IV bag. "Pretty common knowledge, right?"

"If you say so. I can't pretend to be familiar with it. What about leg injuries? Do they like to get you up and on those as soon as possible, too?"

Don felt the heat of a flush build in his ears. "Uh…"

"Because they just worked on that leg again yesterday. If you messed it up, the one that's going to be sorriest for it is you. There's such a thing as being your own worst enemy."

_No kidding. _He rested a hand on his leg, trying to gauge the muted pain under the stiffness there.

Alan noticed. "A nurse stopped by to refresh your IV. The doctor decided it would be better to let you sleep a little before moving you - then he'll want to do a more thorough examination - see if you've damaged anything."

_Oh. This was_…he didn't even remember going to sleep.

"Might have avoided that if you'd just woken me up and asked me to lend a hand in the first place."

_Well, looked like there was going to be no way around eating a little crow here. Might as well suck it up and take it like a man. _"You looked pretty tired. I didn't want to disturb you."

"I see. Well, next time you're being considerate, try taking a minute to think about the minor heart attack it'll give me to wake up and see your bed empty. You don't even want to know what went through my head."

Don frowned questioningly.

"You know - another surgery…the hospital morgue…"

Don blinked. "Oh, come on. You didn't really think…"

"Don't look so surprised. I've spent the last couple of days wondering which way over that line you were going to tilt - it was my first and most natural conclusion."

_Oh. Ouch. _Don ground his fingers into his eyes. "Sorry," he said meekly.

"Oh, I caught on about a heartbeat later. Should have realized first thing, I guess. Seems like ever since you figured out how to walk without holding onto the furniture, I've been turning around to find you've run off somewhere."

Don's mouth curved into a tentative smile. "Yeah, well, then here's good news - looks like I'm back to walking holding onto the furniture."

"Mm. If that's your idea of good news, then I think you're due for a mental overhaul."

_Yeah, okay. Wasn't going to make this easy. _"Look, I'm sorry if I upset you. And I'm sorry if I - you know - created a fuss." No point in saying that he was sorry he'd tried his hand at walking - he knew himself well enough to know that, given the chance, he'd do it again. Wouldn't fool his father anyway.

Still, this was only the start - the number of sorrys he owed seemed to stretch from here to the moon. "Um - " he hesitated painfully. _Might as well get this one out of the way._ "Same hospital, huh?"

This time the look Alan gave him was sharper and more probing. "That's right."

"Sorry." If you said that enough, did it help, or did it just become meaningless?

"Don't be ridiculous." Alan's voice was gruff this time. "They have an excellent trauma unit here - it was the best place to bring you. I wouldn't have had it any other way." Don tried to nod, but he suspected it lacked conviction, because Alan continued, "Besides, there's something to be said for knowing my way around. And you're recovering - I wouldn't mind having a few good memories of the place."

Don snorted. "If this is your idea of good memories, then you need a mental overhaul more than I do." He ran his fingers over the bandage on his side. "Still smells the same, huh?"

Alan smiled a little. "I think they all smell like that."

"I guess." He noticed for the first time that someone had thrown a blanket over him at some point and slid a little further under it. "Sticks with you, though, doesn't it?"

Alan's gaze narrowed and Don found something very interesting to look at on the blanket's surface. "Well, it certainly seems to have stuck with one of us." He leaned over and rested a hand against Don's neck. "Not feeling very well, are you? I can't say that I'm surprised."

Don twisted away. "Oh, come on - it was bad enough when Charlie did that - "

"Did he?" Alan chuckled. "He's turning into a regular little Florence Nightingale."

"I noticed."

"You know Charlie - everything he does, he likes to do - all the way."

"Oh, yeah."

"Can be a little - much - sometimes. Feel like - pressure."

Don shot him a look. "Smooth," he offered dryly. "I could use you in the interrogation room." He dropped his head back and traced the outline of the window with his eyes. "What exactly did Charlie say?"

Alan set his book aside. "That you had an argument."

_Good old full-disclosure Charlie_. "It wasn't exactly an argument…more of a - philosophical disagreement on the appropriate dissemination of information."

"Really." Alan nodded. "You know, between Charlie's math and your bureaucrat-ese, I figure it's only a matter of time before I don't understand a word either one of you says."

Don tried to smile, tested giving his leg a stretch, winced instead. "He wanted more information on - what happened. Man, I don't know why he wants all the gory details - it's like he thinks it's a - a rite of passage or something. It's not - it's just a lot of crummy baggage."

Alan smiled. "Charlie's a little like the Press sometimes - has trouble distinguishing the right to know from the desire to know. On the other hand, maybe he thought talking about it would lighten your 'crummy baggage'. Did you tell him what he wanted to know?"

"I told him - what I thought was plenty, and what he didn't think was enough. You know how that goes. I don't - I'm not all that proud of what happened, Dad."

Alan eyed him thoughtfully. "Did you want to talk about it now?"

"No!"

Don sighed. _Yelling with the remnants of a concussion - never a good idea. _"No," he repeated more quietly.

"Fine with me. I find that David's cliff notes version was fully adequate, myself. More than enough, really. I don't need any new images in my mind every time that phone of yours rings and you run out the door."

"Sor - " he bit back on the word. _Enough of that. What did it mean, anyway? Nothing. Didn't fix anything. Didn't bring back any of the dead victims, didn't heal any of the surviving families, didn't change that there could have been even more, if…_and this was ridiculous, because they couldn't repair the past, could only do their best with the present, and he knew that: _knew_ it - would say it to any of his team in the same position, without hesitation and with total conviction. So why was he having so much trouble making it seem real now?

"Do you remember once you told me that you didn't look in my file because you knew that ultimately you would respect anything your mother and I were involved in?"

Don looked over at Alan then, trying to read his expression. After a minute, he gave a perfunctory nod.

"Well, the feeling is mutual. Whatever it is you think you've done or didn't do - I don't need to know about it. Whatever decision you made, I know I would ultimately respect it. So how about lightening up on yourself?"

_Lightening up. We're not talking about clerical errors here, Dad - decisions I make have far-reaching, life-altering consequences for a lot of people. _But to say it out loud seemed ungrateful, so he swallowed it down instead.

"And at the risk of sounding callous - " Alan continued calmly. " - you're alive. Right now I'm having trouble giving a damn about anything else. It's a lot to be thankful for. Maybe you should try it."

Don was silent. He was remembering someone else saying, 'we brought everybody home safe, and sometimes that's about all you can hope for.' _True enough_. The tight knot around his heart loosened a little. He cleared his throat. "So, where is Chuck anyway?"

"Said he had to make a phone call."

Suddenly on the alert, Don narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "A phone call? To who?"

Alan raised his brows. "I didn't ask. Probably Amita or the university, but unlike my sons, I don't feel I'm entitled to pry into what's none of my business."

Don choked. " Yeah - since when?"

Alan's smile broadened into a grin. "So, hot shot, you ready to go back to your bed?"

Don opened his mouth to answer, then huffed a rueful laugh. "You _know_ I can't move, right?"

Alan's grin grew wider. He reached over and gave Don's good knee a pat. "Just wanted to hear you say it."

000

Charlie dropped onto a bench in the small courtyard and tucked his legs under it, phone snugged against his ear. It was one of the only areas of the hospital where cell phone use was permitted, and it had the double advantage of offering a little privacy and a lot of sunshine. The call was picked up on the second ring and he sat up straight, unconsciously schooling his voice. "Megan? It's Charlie."

"Hi, Charlie." Megan sounded bright and cheerful. "Nice to hear from you. How's Don?"

"He's - well, he's better, I guess. He was up and walking."

"Hey, that's great. The doctor let him up already?"

Charlie hesitated. "Um - well - not - not exactly."

Megan laughed. "Yeah, that sounds about right. So, aside from making trouble, he's doing good?"

"Yeah - he's conscious longer - sounds more like himself." He hesitated again, not quite sure how he wanted to broach this. Talking to a psychologist was always a little like walking in a minefield. "Look, I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions for me - "

"Sure, Charlie, what about?"

Megan sounded so normal that Charlie's confidence grew. "Well, I've read all the news reports about the incident, but there seems to be - a lot of missing information. I was hoping you could fill me in."

There was a brief pause. "Well, sure, Charlie, but if Don's conscious and talking, why don't you just ask him?"

_Damn. _"Well, I, um - " He was a bad liar, everyone always said he was a bad liar and he could even hear it in his own voice. "I don't want to - stress him out. You know, while he's - uh - "

"Already asked him, huh?"

Charlie pinched his eyebrows upward and together. _Psychologists. _He made a face. "My timing was, maybe, not ideal."

"Uh-huh." There was a pause, during which Charlie tried to imagine what Megan might be thinking. "Exactly what kind of information were you looking for? You're not going to get me in trouble, are you?"

Charlie paused. He hadn't thought of that. He wasn't, was he? Megan's tone was light and she didn't sound truly concerned, but Don was her partner and boss - and maybe more importantly, her friend. "I'm just trying to - " _Okay, cards on the table. Maybe that was better._ He took a deep breath. "Don gets this whole protective vibe going on - like he still has to hold my hand to make sure I cross on the green. So he does this "need to know" thing with information. Now I have this scenario stuck in my head with big holes in it and it'll drive me crazy until I can make some sense of it. I hate puzzles with missing pieces."

"Yeah, I'll bet you're a lot of fun to do jigsaws with."

There was another pause, but thoughtful, not tense, so Charlie just waited. After a minute he coaxed, "It can't be good for him to keep this stuff festering inside, right? He seems sort of - depressed."

"It's normal to be a little depressed - he hasn't really had time to process anything…look, Charlie, here's what I'll do. There's something I've been wanting to bring by for Don anyway, something I think will cheer him up. If you say he's up for visitors, I'll drop by with it later today. And I wouldn't worry about any festering - he's not getting out of this one without a few visits to a Bureau shrink."

But that won't answer my questions, Charlie thought, then felt guilty for even thinking it.

Megan must have read his mind, because she continued, "As for the rest…why don't you just give him a little time? Maybe he's just not ready to talk about it yet."

_Right. Because, given a few days, Don is likely to suddenly turn into a font of non-cryptic information_. But he figured he'd run this particular source down about as far as he could, so he nodded resignedly, remembered that Megan couldn't hear his nod and added, "Okay. I know you wouldn't - I mean, you wouldn't try to protect me too?"

"Me?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "Not me - I'm trying to protect your brother - he signs my performance reviews. You're on your own."

Charlie laughed. "Thanks."

"And Charlie? It's possible it's not you Don's trying to protect either. Just something to think about."

That caught Charlie up short. "I - I don't - ?"

"Himself, Charlie. Maybe Don's trying to protect himself."

"But - from what?" _More mysteries_. Charlie could hardly contain his exasperation. "All the news reports talk like he's a big hero - he shot that guy - stopped him - even though he was trapped and - and injured - "

"Yeah, well, the media spin on it and the Don Eppes spin on it may not be exactly the same. Just try to keep in mind that, odds are, it's really likely that it's not about you anyway. I'll see you later."

Charlie stared at the phone as the display went dark. He sighed silently. Trouble was, none of this was making him any less curious.

_TBC_

_A/N: Oh, just for the record - someone asked about Alan calling Don "Donnie". That is taken directly from the show. Alan doesn't use it all the time, but he uses it often, and he seems to be the only one who does. I'm not sure whether it's his personal nickname for Don, or a leftover childhood nickname that he clings to long after everyone else has let go of it. I know my father is the only person left to call us by our childhood names, so it always makes me smile to hear it. I do try to keep everything as close as possible to the language, syntax and characterizations of the characters on the show though, out of respect for both the creators and the actors. And because that's what I like to read in fic myself._


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"Hey!"

Megan clasped Don's outstretched hand, frowning a little at the unnatural trace of heat she found there. She eyed him keenly through her lashes. His smile fell a little short of its usual candlepower, but he still looked about a hundred times better than the last time she'd seen him. She saw his eyes light up as he took in the case clutched in her free hand and couldn't suppress a smile herself.

"Aw - here's a woman after my own heart. Is that what I think it is?"

She balanced the case on the edge of the tray table that stretched across the bed and drew a stack of DVDs out of the front pocket. "Press conference - " she put one down in front of him with a flourish, "And interrogation." She fanned the rest of the DVDs next to it.

Don's smile stretched and he elbowed the tray currently occupying the surface aside. "Great - there must be a plug around here somewhere - "

Megan slid a pointed gaze to the abandoned tray. "Are you supposed to be eating that?"

Don shrugged, his eyes on the portable DVD player. "I was thinking of bagging it for you take it back to the lab for analysis. Unless you can tell me what it is?"

Megan tilted her head at it. "Okay, I'm stumped - but that doesn't mean you shouldn't eat it."

Don waved it aside. "I was supposed to give it a try. I'm willing to admit defeat. Hey!" He smiled again at a new figure in the doorway. "David! How's Colby doing?"

David kept his hands behind him. "He's a lot better. Expects to be in tomorrow. Sent his best wishes - and this - " He pulled his hands from behind his back and to display a kidney-shaped dish, spray painted gold and sporting a huge red bow. "Said you won it fair and square."

Don stared, then turned accusing eyes on Megan. "Don't tell me you ratted me out too?"

Megan held up her hands. "Not me - David seems to have connections in the Morgue - "

Don raised his brows at David. "Yeah?"

David colored. "She just - asked me how you were feeling - said you hadn't been so good that day at the Morgue - "

"Man can't have any secrets around here," Don grumbled, then his eyes narrowed slyly. "She, huh? Which one?"

"I - " David flushed more deeply. "Really, we're just - friends - "

"Uh huh. I need names. I might want to tell her a few secrets about you."

David froze. "You wouldn't!"

"Watch me." His face grew sober and he held out a hand to David this time. "Seriously, man, thanks. I owe you one."

David accepted the hand and gripped it. "No. You don't."

Megan pulled a chair near the head of the bed and dropped into it. "So, how about you? How are you doing?"

"I'm doing okay." Don's tone was studiedly casual. His gaze slid away from hers and focused on a DVD case instead. "I mean, I won't be running any races for a while…" He hesitated. "Guess I should be expecting a more official visit at some point, huh?"

Megan nodded. "They'll be sending somebody around to take your statement. Not one of us, since we were on the scene."

"Yeah." The word came out on a sigh.

Megan raised her brows at him, then glanced at David, who shrugged. "Who exactly are you expecting?"

Don blew out an impatient breath. "I'm expecting at least some pretty chilly questions from Merrick, for one."

"Oh." David scratched his ear. "Yeah, well - I wouldn't worry about that. I think they're all going to lay pretty low about it." Don looked at him questioningly. "I mean - it would be too awkward. What with all the press and everything. And the equipment failure."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute - " Don scrubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. "What am I missing? What equipment failure?"

David pulled a chair over and straddled it. "The seatbelt. Your seatbelt gave. How did you think you ended up under the car instead of inside it?"

Don shook his head. "I'm still working on what day it is - I haven't gotten nearly that far yet. My seatbelt…?" He ran a palm unconsciously over his chest, massaging the deep bruise that slanted across it. "Huh."

David rested his chin on his folded arms. "Your seatbelt gave and your were thrown clear, then the car rolled on you. They're tearing that car and the repair logs apart to figure out what went wrong, but in the meantime, they have no interest in bringing it to the attention of the press. Especially not while you're being lauded as a hero. Way too embarrassing."

"Okay, hold on - back up again." Don sank back into his pillows and stared. "Hero. What's _that_ about? I don't consider that exactly my most shining moment."

David lifted his brows. "Complain to Wainwright. He's the one who gave the spin to the press."

"_Wainwright_ did?" Don looked bewildered and relieved at the same time. "But - huh." He fell silent.

Megan gave his arm a pat. "You can ask him about it yourself - he's been wanting to visit once you were feeling a little better."

Don shook his head as if to clear it. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That'd be good." He noticed their faces and smiled suddenly, picking up one of the DVDs. "So, you guys gonna help me set up here, or what?"

David obligingly unraveled the cord and hunted for an outlet.

"What about Wainwright? He pushed this case for twenty years. Doesn't he get hero billing?"

"Oh, yeah - " David's voice drifted up from the floor. "He's the conquering hero. But your story makes better press."

Don shook his head. "For a ruptured appendix. That's - what about you guys? Did they at least remember you were there?"

David stood, dusting off his hands. "Yeah, I think we might have gotten a one line mention, didn't we Megan?"

Megan nodded solemnly. "Sure we did - not by name, of course, but as the 'Team of Special Agent Eppes'."

Don groaned and laughed at the same time. "Man," he shook his head. "There is no justice."

David grinned. "No, no - it was better than that - in one newspaper, we were 'the _crack_ team of Special Agent Eppes'…makes a man proud. I cut it out for my Mom."

"All right, all right, already…" Don hunted for the power button.

"No, I mean it - " David leaned over and hit the 'on' button for him. "I did. She loves that stuff. The whole neighborhood will have read it by the next time I go home. How about your Dad - ?" He broke off abruptly.

Don grimaced. "I'm guessing my Dad could do without any clippings of me pinned by a car, bleeding my life out on a roadway."

"Yeah." David sounded glum.

Don glanced at him. "Hey, I know you tried to be discreet with him - I really appreciate it."

David smiled slightly. "Wasn't easy. He has a way of looking at you…"

"Trust me - I know the look."

"Yeah. Still, I gotta tell you - you may not think it was a great moment, but I was sure you were down for the count. Then when that gun went off…" he gave a low whistle. "Nearly jumped out of my skin."

"Me too," said Megan dryly. "I expected a big cloud of flame to be about a second behind."

Don chuckled. "Me too." They looked at each other and laughed. "C'mon, who's got the remote? I wanna see what we got here."

Megan pulled out the remote and aimed it at the screen.

"Megan! David!"

Megan smiled as Charlie appeared in the doorway. "Hi, Charlie. Hi, Alan."

"Good. Company. Maybe a little company will keep my crazy son from doing crazy things." Alan saw the DVD player and stopped short. "Oh, don't tell me - what is that - work?"

"No, not really work," Don assured him breezily. "More like - closure." He glanced at Megan for corroboration.

She shrugged and smiled at Alan. "Could be closure."

Alan shook his head. "It's like an obsession."

"In this case, I think maybe it's more like…missing puzzle pieces." Megan winked at Charlie.

Charlie smiled.

Alan moved around the bed so he could get a better look at the screen, stopped abruptly. "What's this - you didn't eat your porridge?"

"Is that what that is? It should come with a label."

"Label or not, it's your first meal in days - you'd think you'd be grateful for it."

"Yeah, I'd like to meet the guy who could be grateful for that - what the heck is porridge anyway? I mean, aside from the fictionalstuff Goldilocks ate on her B&E with the Three Bears?"

"It's - a very nourishing - " Alan used the spoon to poke cautiously at the pale grey blob coating the bowl. "It's made from - " He paused, voice petering. "Maybe we can find you something a little more palatable," he relented. "Or at least more recognizable." He watched the DVD images come to life with a hum. "You can't take a day off from this stuff? It can't be good for you."

Don's eyes were fixed on the small screen. "It's important. Everything one of these guys tells us helps us with the next one. It was Ted Bundy who helped put away the Green River Killer."

Alan pulled up a chair, almost despite himself. "Why would he do that?"

Don shrugged. "Hoped to have his death sentence commuted."

"Was it?"

"Nope."

"Somehow I don't find that disappointing." Alan fell silent, watching a man he didn't recognize lead the questioning, Megan sitting quietly next to him, only interjecting occasionally, the suspect answering in polite, neutral tones. It looked for all the world like a business meeting, if you didn't listen to the words. "He seems so - normal." Alan burst out at last. "Even - dull."

"He's anything but normal," Megan said grimly. "A genius, really. And a sexual sadist the likes of which I've only read about in text books. I wouldn't mind confining my exposure to his kind to books from now on."

"Yeah, good luck with that." Don frowned, listening to the unemotional and rambling confession.

…_the LAPD did a fine job keeping tabs on me over the years. It took a lot of good men to make all this happen. Lt. Wainwright - he gave me a run for my money. He scored the winning point, I guess, and I'll miss the challenge of trying to stay ahead of him. He's a good man…_

Don pulled at his ear. "Is it me, or does he sound like he's thanking the Academy?"

Megan didn't smile. "It's not you. I think he figures he's serial killer of the year."

"He could be right…just kind of galling that he seems so proud of it…"

Megan shrugged. "That's megalomania for you."

"Yeah. I guess I can remember that. We had one weird conversation…"

…_and, of course, I can't forget the FBI. They really hung in there and despite the fine men of the LAPD, this might never have happened if not for them. Speaking of that, I should give special acknowledgment to Agent Eppes, who kept such a cool head, and persevered under pressure. In the end he did outwit me, but I respect that and no hard feelings…_

Don was still, his eyes transfixed on the screen, his hands fisting in the blankets until the knuckles went white. He swallowed slowly.

"Turn it off," he said quietly.

_TBC _


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: This is one that just wouldn't break up nicely - just the first part seemed too short, with the second part seemed too long - so I opted for long. Thanks to everyone who hung in there this far. And Patty, I meant to mention last time (always seem to be rushing these days): you have told me that - and I appreciate it more than I can say. It's the thing I work hardest at. Hope everyone here in the US is enjoying a nice holiday weekend._

Chapter 24

"So, what's the verdict?" Alan leaned in the doorway.

The doctor smiled without looking up from the chart he was writing on. "Good news and bad news. His temperature's up, but the new stitches seem to be holding fine. My recommendation is sleep."

"Sleep is all I do." Don gave his arch enemy, the IV, a sideways look. "Think you could lighten up on this stuff?"

Dr. Gillworth glanced up from his notes to follow his gaze. "I don't think you'd like that as much as you think you would. The morphine is fooling you into thinking there's less pain than there is. Let's give it a couple more days, then we'll talk about that again."

"A couple more days," Don repeated blankly. "Here?"

"You don't enjoy our guest services?"

"Nothing personal," said Don bluntly, "But you ever try sleeping in one of these beds?"

"No, and I hope I never do," Dr. Gillworth replied cheerfully. "Get some rest."

_Yeah. Everybody keeps saying that. _

"Maybe what you need to do is remember how you got here." Alan suggested significantly.

Don looked at his father than back at Dr. Gillworth. "Could you tell him what you told me? In fact, if you could print it out and hang it over the bed, that would be a big help."

Dr. Gillworth's smile deepened. "It's very difficult to diagnose appendicitis in people over thirty," he recited obediently. " - they almost never display all the classic symptoms and it can mimic so many other things."

"Like food poisoning."

"Food poisoning is a good example."

"Yeah, I thought so." He raised his brows triumphantly in Alan's direction.

"Some people stay home with food poisoning," Alan countered.

Don shook his head. "Man, there's no winning with you."

Alan nodded. "Try and remember that. I brought you something. Doctor approved." He held out a paper tumbler, sealed with a plastic lid punctured by a straw.

Don eyed it suspiciously. "That's not Goldilocks food in a cup, is it?"

Alan made space for it on the tray in front of him. "It's a milkshake, ye of little faith. Drink up."

Don tried to peer down the straw. "That's it? No fancy additives?"

"There might be a little protein supplement. It won't kill you. Come on - you need something inside besides saline. If that sits well, maybe the doctor will think about real food." He nodded at Dr. Gillworth. "Thank you, doctor. I know how he can be."

"I'm just lying here," Don protested.

"Right. Let's stick with that, shall we?"

Don opened his mouth to answer and sighed instead. _Not like anybody listened to him anyway._

Dr. Gillworth closed the chart. "I'll be back to check on you tonight. Until then, try to ask for help before you get up, all right?"

Don lifted his hand in a gesture that might be taken as assent.

"I'll make sure of it," Alan assured him with a tight-lipped smile.

_Great. _Don watched the door swing shut behind the doctor, heard the scrape of a chair next to the bed, but didn't turn and look.

"You should drink that. It's strawberry."

Don pumped the straw absently. He couldn't imagine having less appetite.

"Come on. Humor me."

Don took a sip, winced a little as drawing through a straw pulled on the new stitches in his abdomen. He pushed off the lid with his thumb, stirred the contents idlly with his straw.

"Playing with your food was never your style."

Don tried sipping directly from the cup rim. _Yeah, that was better_. "Where's Charlie?"

"I told everybody to go away for awhile."

Don glanced at him warily. _So…lecture? What?_

"I would think you'd be feeling a little better. If a doctor would have trouble diagnosing appendicitis, you wouldn't be able to, either."

"Careful - that sounds like you're cutting me some slack."

He could see the movement of Alan shaking his head in his peripheral vision. "Not me. I think you should stay home when you're sick. I'm asking you to cut _yourself _some slack."

"I - " he poked more violently at the milkshake. "It's not that." _Or maybe it was. _"I just - I guess I feel like a - an - accomplice or something. Can't seem to get past it. I don't need him pointing it out to me."

"He's trying to mess with your head, Megan says. So don't let him."

"I know." Don rubbed at his ear. "Guess I'm doing a good enough job messing with it on my own."

"I think so. And I think you just plain overdid it for one day."

Don looked indignant. "I'm just _lying_ here!"

"No, it's your first day pushing out full sentences and so far you've taken a little stroll unattended, had some clean up work done on your stitches, entertained visitors, viewed part of an interrogation - there are a lot of well people who would consider that a pretty full day."

Don was silent.

"Donnie."

That got his attention. His father had a lot of ways of saying his name: angry, teasing, matter-of-fact - and, every once in a while, a note like a caress that never failed to pull him up up short. It was one he often heard him use with Charlie, but not so much with himself - they had a more push-and-pull relationship - almost more friends than father and son sometimes, so the indulgent, tender tone always caught him off guard. Now he felt his throat tighten and he pushed aside the mess he was making of the milkshake.

"I know it's difficult for an active, busy person to suddenly find themselves stuck in bed and unable to do things - to wait for everybody to do them for them. I remember how your mother struggled with it - how dehumanizing she found it. But - well - here you are, kiddo. I don't think you have any choice but to ride it out."

Don hesitated. "Yeah. I know," he breathed at last. This was where he usually found a reason to make a hasty exit. _Guess that's not an option._

"So take it easy. Give yourself a chanceto heal- inside and out. And drink your milkshake. You'll feel better with something in your stomach."

Don almost smiled. _Food. The great cure for everything. _He took another sip of the milkshake. It seemed easier than arguing about it.

"And try to let go of work for a while? I knew it was too soon for you to be looking at that stuff."

"No - you're wrong." He stirred the damp mush in the cup with the straw. "I need to - get it in perspective. I need information for that." He fell abruptly silent. That reminded him of what Charlie had said - maybe that's what he had been trying to tell him.

"Well, then, eat now and get some sleep. Then you can collect more information later. Come on - what would your mother say?"

Don's mouth turned up on one side. "That everything will look better in the morning."

"And was she ever wrong?"

"Not to hear her tell it."

Alan laughed. "Then finish that and go to sleep and everything will look brighter in the morning."

_Morning. _He frowned suddenly, glancing around at the walls. It was like being stuck in a sensory deprivation tank. "Dad?"

"Hm?" Alan looked over from adjusting the half open blinds.

"What time is it, exactly?"

Alan harrumphed. "Uh - about - three in the afternoon, I guess…" he said vaguely.

Don squinted at him. "And you're expecting me to sleep through until _morning_?"

Alan scooted the chair closer to the bed and picked up his abandoned magazine, manipulating a small bedside lamp until it rested away from the bed and directly in his page. He pulled out his glasses and balanced them on his nose. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

000

He knew he'd been dreaming and the frenetic hammering of his heart told him it hadn't been a good dream, but the particulars were fading like thin wisps of smoke in a breeze. _Smoke. _He made a face, using both hands to massage his eyes clear. _Bad analogy. _Because for all he couldn't remember, he could remember it was about Twilliger, could almost hear the echo of his voice in his mind.

_Bastard. Get out of my head_.

The light in the room had changed and he glanced around for a clock of some kind, remembered that he hadn't been able to find one earlier and swore softly to himself. Come on, come on - this was cruel and unusual punishment - how many times a day did he check his watch? Too many to count - almost a nervous tick - he always felt he was trying to race it and losing. What would be so deadly about allowing him that small sense of control and normalcy - a clock?

He patted the mattress next to him, trying to find the bed controls, managed to get a hand on them and the head of the bed in motion, then noticed that with surprise that he was alone. _Huh. That was different_.

Feeling a little cheered, he spotted the DVD case on the tray table in front of him, everything now neatly zipped away, and reached for it, careful not to lean forward. As he got his hand around the handle, a piece of paper slid off the top and into his lap. He picked it up curiously, recognized his father's neat draftsman's block printing immediately.

_Donnie_, it read, _I've stepped away for a little while, but I'll be back soon. If you wake up and need anything, ring for the nurse. Love, Dad_. _P.S. I mean it. Ring._

Don smiled in spite of himself. _Nagging by written proxy. Great. _He put the note aside and stuck his hand in the front pocket of the DVD case and pulled out the stack of DVDs. Which was all very well, he reflected, but unless this thing had charged batteries, that was as far as he was getting. No way was he going to be able to manage to plug it in. He was struggling with the zipper and contemplating a way around this predicament when he heard a quiet rap on the door and looked up quickly, fumbling for an excuse. When he saw it wasn't anyone he'd expected, he relaxed. _And who was I kidding anyway? Who in my family would ever bother to knock?_

"Hey," he said in surprise. "Come on in."

Wainwright elbowed the door inward, holding a hard cover mystery novel at an arm's length in front of him. "You don't look half bad," he offered, handing it to Don and studying him keenly. "For road kill."

Don laughed. "Thanks. Have a seat."

Wainwright pulled over a chair. "I met your father at the nurse's station. He law enforcement too?"

"Dad?" Don tried to picture that and failed. "No - he was a - a city planner. Why?"

"Because he told me that I could see you if you were awake, but that if you were asleep and I woke you up, he'd kill me. Didn't seem to be packing, but he was still pretty convincing, so I assumed law enforcement."

Don gave an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry. He's in full Papa Bear mode these days."

Wainwright smiled. "Well, can't really blame him. I've got kids of my own. Know how I'd feel."

"Yeah?" Don smiled, relieved for a little conversation that wasn't about himself. "Any of them looking at law enforcement?"

"Lord, I hope not. I wouldn't wish this life on a dog, never mind my kid."

"Pretty much how my dad feels." Don dropped his eyes to the book cover. "Thanks for this, too."

"Well, you don't look like the type for flowers, and I didn't think they'd let me in with a fifth of scotch, so that was the next best thing. Besides, I've been hung up here before - boring as hell."

"You got that right."

Wainwright spied the DVDs. "Though you seem to have some entertainment." He raised his eyebrows as he noted the official FBI label. "That Twilliger?"

Don nodded. "Megan brought them by."

"She's a good one. Good team."

"The best," Don agreed. "Yours too. David told me about Jeffries and the kitty litter. Creative guy."

"Yeah. They're a good bunch." He smiled suddenly. "So, now that we've done all the polite stuff - how _are_ you doing? Really?"

The question hung between them. "Wish I knew," Don said after a minute.

Wainwright sobered. "Takes some time." He gestured to the DVDs. "Those the interrogation?"

"And the press conference. I haven't gotten very far yet."

Wainwright picked up a DVD and read the label. "I'm not surprised. Listening to him is enough to make a strong man lose his lunch. Had to get up and leave the room once or twice to keep from slugging him."

"Yeah." Don turned the book over in his hands. "Some of them just seem to - get under your skin."

"That they do." They sat in pensive silence.

Don took a breath, struggling for the words he wanted. "Look, I wanted to - David told me what you said to the reporters about - about what happened, and - "

"And - ?" Wainwright prompted unhelpfully.

Don forced himself to look him in the eye. "About the arrest. I know why you told them what you did - " Wainwright remained politely unenlightened and he added impatiently, " - about me being some kind of hero?"

Wainwright's expression remained mild. "You kept the collar of my career from going down the crapper. As far as I'm concerned, you are a hero."

Don frowned at him. "If it wasn't for me, the collar wouldn't have been in the crapper to begin with."

Wainwright pursed his lips thoughtfully. "In that case, if it wasn't for me and my team losing him briefly, Karen McGuire would still be alive. There's been a lot of 'what ifs' in this case over the decades - dwell on those and you'll make yourself crazy. Outcome - that's what matters in the end. In the end you pulled an ace out of your sleeve when it counted. So count that."

Don shook his head. "That was a lot of good luck."

Wainwright smiled faintly. "Luck is all we've got out there most days - good and bad. So when the good comes your way - just enjoy it."

Don eyed him narrowly, trying to read him, then finally relaxed back into the pillows. "Maybe you're right," he admitted.

"Of course I'm right. I've been at this longer than you have."

Don gave an appreciative laugh. "Yeah, okay. Still - tell me you weren't trying to make sure they couldn't turn anything against me. Come on - the truth."

Wainright rubbed his chin, his eyes on the wall over Don's headboard.

"They think they remember what it's like out in the field," he said slowly at last. "They don't remember. Even the best of them - the ones who really mean to - they don't. Too many pressures from public opinion and brass who want answers and reporters who twist things and pensions that can disappear. They don't remember how many things - small, uncontrollable, unpredictable things - can send the whole thing careening out of control in the blink of an eye. You have to be out there to remember. And you have to watch the backs of the people who are out there with you."

Don sat quietly, turning that over in his mind. "Yeah, okay," he said after a minute. "Thanks."

Wainwright shrugged. "You'd do it for me."

Don grinned. "Yeah."

"So - " Wainwright held up the DVD in his hand. "How'd you like the press conference?"

Don was about to say that he hated press conferences - the press asking sensationalized questions about all the wrong things, a lot of big wigs patting each other on the back - when he remembered that this was the press conference of Wainwright's career and stopped himself in time.

"Haven't seen it. Just - got started on the interrogations."

Wainwright's smile grew. "You looked at those without looking at the press conference? You gotta see the press conference." He unzipped the case that held the DVD player.

Don bit his tongue to stop a protest. Oh, well. It was the least he could do for the guy.

Wainwright efficiently brought the DVD player screen to life, then dropped in the DVD. Don tried to look interested as the images jumped into motion on the small screen.

It started like a normal press conference - Wainwright giving the details of the arrest and the supporting evidence to the press and the people crowding the area behind them. But there was something about Wainwright's expression - a look of peace and triumph after a long battle - that actually started a lump in his throat. He shook his head. _This is just great. They'd better get me off this morphine soon, or I'll be sobbing at Hallmark commercials next._

Wainwright's voice continued on the small speakers, sounding tinny and far away. _And so, ladies and gentlemen, to make a long story short - Arthur Twilliger has been stopped_. There was a spontaneous burst of applause and Don's eyebrows jumped in surprise.

Wainwright noticed and grinned. "How's that, huh? How often do we get applause for what we do? Most days it's a good day if nobody spits on us."

Don smiled a little. "Got that right." His eyes were on the screen though. The camera was panning through the crowd now, where people were clapping or hugging or sobbing, the shot freezing occasionally on this one or that one to overlay titles: _Mr. And Mrs. George Viscay - parents of victim Marjorie Viscay, 21. Mrs. Faustina Ramirez, grandmother of victim Rosa Pereda, 17. Ms. Lillian Turnbot, sister of victim Agnes MacNamara, 39. Jeffery Crandall, son of victim Phyllis Crandall, 33. Mrs. Anna McGuire, mother of victim Karen McGuire, 9..._his hand groped for the remote, found it and hit the pause button.

He stared at the small image. It would be too much to say that Mrs. McGuire looked at peace, sobbing wildly and hands clasped over her heart. But she had a look of fierce satisfaction that Don studied for a long time.

They couldn't stop Twilliger sooner and they couldn't bring Karen back, but they had apprehended her killer and he would pay, one way or another. It wasn't perfect, but then, so little was. It was still something. And Arthur Twilliger wouldn't hurt another woman, ever again.

"You're right - " he agreed slowly, "this is a good press conference."

He kept the screen in freeze-frame, trying to fix Mrs. McGuire's image in his mind, scrolling through the list of the victims' families in his head. _They'd find a measure of peace now. Of closure…and the applause was nice._ He hit the button to release the freeze, watched as the camera continued to pick victims' families out of the crowd, his eyes dark with thought as he focused their faces. He half smiled.

_Then again - sometimes applause was where you found it._

_TBC_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Life has just not cooperated, so I'm running a little behind I know. Almost home now. You guys have been the best. And yes, of course I'm working on another. _

Chapter 25

"How long you gonna watch that stuff?"

Don hit the pause button and lifted one earphone. "Huh?"

Charlie flopped into one of the chairs next to the bed. "I said, how long are you gonna watch that stuff?"

Don glanced back at the DVD player. "I don't know - nothing on TV except soap operas - maybe forever. I thought you were working on a lecture."

"I finished."

Don pulled the headphones all the way off, trying to classify Charlie's tone. And actually, now that someone had brought it to his attention, his head was hurting from focusing on the screen too long anyway. He dug his fingers into his temples. "You know, you don't have to hang around here - you can take off. Do what you need to do. No point in both of us being bored out of our minds."

"I'm not bored."

Don shrugged. "Then I wish you'd share your secret."

"You're not bored either - you've been staring at that stuff like it contains answers to the mysteries of the universe. Or dirty pictures."

Don laughed. "No such luck."

"So. What did you find out?"

Don frowned, feeling like he was running a little behind in this conversation. "…about…?"

"You know. Twilliger."

"That he's a crazy, delusional S.O.B. But I guess that isn't news."

"Yeah." Charlie switched his gaze to the halted image on the screen. "Crazy. Is that official, or are you just being hyperbolic?"

Don shook his head, willing away the vestiges of a headache. "Well, we don't have a psych evaluation or anything, but, yeah - I'd say it's a foregone conclusion, depending on what you mean by crazy. Sociopath, probably, or some kind of personality disorder - something."

Charlie nodded. "How - um - how does somebody get that way, exactly? I mean, are they born like that, or…?"

Don blew out a breath and reached over to shut off the DVD player. "I don't know, Charlie, you're getting out of my area of expertise. I mean, I took some forensic psychology at Quantico, but just the basics. Megan could give you better information on something like that."

Charlie stared broodingly at the DVD player, now gone dark. He pushed out of the chair and wandered over to the window. "Megan said he was a genius."

"Yeah, well, I'd hate to think he kept us on the run for twenty years by being an idiot."

"Did she mean that literally, or - "

"Or was she just being hyperbolic? Like I said, we don't have all the evaluations in yet, but looks like literally. He had some kind of - subtle, twisted understanding of the vulnerabilities of human nature." Charlie was silent, and Don regarded his back curiously. "What's going on?"

Charlie shrugged. "I mean, it's hard to believe - you know - that someone - someone so intelligent - could - um - " he ran a hand over his hair.

"Could - ?" Don prompted, feeling lost at sea. Then the light dawned and he grinned. "What, you think somebody that smart should know better? Like genius is some kind of an inoculation against evil?"

"That's not what I meant," Charlie objected, turning around to face him.

Don lifted his brows and Charlie shifted uncomfortably. "That's not what I meant - _exactly_," he amended, a little sheepishly. "I just - it just seems like - " he struggled for the words to explain himself, " - like a man of such superior intellect should have - the - the resources - to - to - "

"To - overcome his baser nature?" Don was still grinning and Charlie glared at him. "Not all geniuses are benign, white food-eating college professors, pal. C'mon - you know that. You've seen your share of crimes among the intellectually well-muscled."

Charlie's glare faltered. "It's not the same thing," he said at last.

Don shook his head. "Then you're going to have to explain to me how it's different, because it sure looks like the same thing to me."

Charlie moved away from the window, his hands beginning to inscribe arcs in the air. "The other genius crimes were crimes of the intellect. I can appreciate the - the - temptation to test your skills against the system - to try and outsmart it and win. The - the restless need for discovery and - to stretch boundaries…and maybe - even - " he cleared his throat. "even a touch of - hubris - "

Don's brows rose a little higher. "Hubris, huh?"

"I said _'a touch'_," Charlie corrected testily.

Don chuckled, and when Charlie didn't join him, prodded teasingly, "So, something you're trying to tell me? You got a checkered past I should know about?"

Charlie didn't seem amused. "Of course not."

"Good. Cause that would be a tough one to explain to Dad - me having to haul you in for questioning." Charlie still didn't smile, so he tried a different tact.

"Look, buddy, I don't know what to tell you. I could give you about a hundred different theories of why people commit crime - psychological, sociological, biological, and every combination in between - but at the end of the day - " he shrugged. "People make choices. Twilliger made bad ones. Why? We're still working on that. What I _can_ tell you is that, from what I've seen, no one's immune - dumb, smart, male, female, old, young, rich, poor - we have profile probabilities and statistics, maybe, but they're all only as good as the next exception.

Twilliger's a sicko who also happens to be a genius and used it to perform sick, weird acts - it's not a reflection on every other genius, any more than it's a reflection on every other accountant, or every other white middle class father. Just him. Period." Charlie's expression softened noticeably, so he added slyly, "I mean, some geniuses are almost normal. Okay, not you, but - hey! Hey! Injured guy here - !"

Don threw an arm protectively over his head as Charlie snatched the extra pillow off of the cot and advanced threateningly. He felt pretty safe, actually - he could almost watch Charlie flip through his options in his mind - _head? No good. Torso? Uh-uh. Legs? No way_. The trick now was to get the pillow from him and turn the tables without damaging anything further - tough to do when you were laughing so hard…

"What's going on here?"

Both froze, Charlie in mid-blow against Don's raised forearm and Don with his hand on the pillow in an attempted counter-attack. Their heads swiveled to the door with identical deer-in-the-headlight expressions.

"Nothing…" they chorused automatically.

"Really." Alan moved into the room and crossed his arms over his chest, looking from one to the other.

"I - I was just fluffing Don's pillows for him, father," Charlie burst out brightly in a flash of inspiration.

Don shot Charlie an exasperated look. _Is that the best you can do? And that 'father' thing is a dead giveaway. Have I taught you nothing?_

"Yeah - I - um - was just going to take a nap…" Don winced at his own explanation, caught Charlie's incredulous look and shrugged. _Yeah, okay, mine was worse, but I have an excuse - I'm hopped up on morphine._

"Really," Alan repeated, coming close to the bed and pulling out a chair. "Well, that sounds like an excellent idea."

Don glared at Charlie. Charlie grinned, giving the pillow a solicitous fluff before inserting it tenderly behind Don's back. He dusted off his hands. "Well, sleep tight, bro. I'll just - get lost so you can get some rest - " He turned on his heel so quickly that the rubber sole of his sneaker squeaked on the linoleum.

"I think you should stay, Charlie." Somehow, despite Alan's pleasant tone it sounded like more than a suggestion. Charlie stopped dead, looking trapped. Alan gestured with some papers in his hand. "Art and I have a contract with a new client, and I'd really like your opinion on it." He looked from one to the other pointedly. "_Both_ your opinions." He pulled out his glasses and perched them on his nose, clearing his throat. "Let's see - the party of the first part - that's me and Art - " he looked meaningfully at Charlie, who opened his mouth to say something, then closed it abruptly, deflating into the chair on the other side of the bed.

Alan smiled.

Don snickered silently until Alan turned his gaze to him, then he immediately sobered, arranging his face into attentive lines.

Alan's smile spread. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes," he cleared his throat again. " - the party of the first part - "

Don shot Charlie a look, eyes bright with laughter, and Charlie returned one of longsuffering, huffing a deeply felt, if inaudible, sigh, before slumping further into the chair.

"…agrees that, in conjunction with the party of the second part…that would be our client…"

Don suppressed a yawn. _Looks like we'll both be taking a nap in another minute, in self defense. _He yawned again, openly this time, then tried to look alert as Alan shot him a look over the top of his glasses.

_Sneaky. Man. _He fought down a smile as he felt his eyes closing. _Maybe me and Charlie should take lessons._

000

Charlie wasn't bored, exactly, but he was restless. His father had told him to go home, Don had told him to go home, but somehow or other, he didn't want to. It wasn't that the small hospital room was that intriguing, but he had taken a week of leave anyway, and there was something oddly comforting about having all your focus within a small compass for a while. He smiled to himself. A little like working in the garage.

Still - he slid deep into his chair until he was almost sitting on his spine - it wasn't exactly a hotbed for excitement. He needed something to do.

He glanced at his laptop, then decided against it. The connection he could get from here was slow as molasses anyway - at least by his standards. He looked next at the stack of books, but he'd worked with those all morning. He wanted a change. His eyes drifted to the television and paused there, before shifting speculatively to Don.

Don slept fairly heavily, dopey from the drugs, but he was restless too - muttering in his sleep and repeatedly trying to turn over, only to be stopped by the narrowness of the bed and the device propping his leg. It was a new prop since Don's adventure in walking - nearly twice as high as the old one. The doctor had given some cheery technical explanation about draining and the infection, but Charlie couldn't help wondering if the real reason was that the new, higher prop was much more difficult for Don to maneuver his leg off without help. He could tell from the narrow, probing look that Don gave the doctor that he was wondering the same thing.

Charlie smiled. Now that Don was less ill and disoriented, it was kind of entertaining to watch him - a revelation. He wasn't used to seeing his brother anything but confident and cryptic and in control, so now seeing him a little fuzzy, a little vulnerable, a little helpless was - well - just the teeniest bit amusing. Even a little bit gratifying. Especially since it was only temporary.

He grinned as Don mumbled something and kicked at the blanket. He grabbed the tangle of fabric deftly as it fell, arranging it carefully back over the bed. Don's hand came up and he caught it in his own and hung on.

"Hey, Don," he whispered. "Ssh. It's just me." After a second, the hand in his went limp and Charlie tucked it under the blanket. _I'd give a lot to know what's going on in your head. _

He moved to push the tray table to the end of the bed, out of the way, so he could adjust the blanket, then paused with his hand on it, his eyes drawn to the stack of DVDs and the DVD player. There was even a set of headphones - so he wouldn't have to worry about waking Don. And it wasn't like anybody had said he _couldn't_ see them - he had watched part of the first one, after all. He pushed down the voice inside that suggested that that wasn't really the point - he was already warming up the machine and sliding the headphones over his ears, adjusting the sound so that the residual echo if the headphones would be barely audible.

He shuffled through the DVDs, arranged neatly in order and in two stacks - ones Don had already viewed, ones he hadn't. He carefully noted which was which so he could return them exactly as he'd found them. Not that he was trying to be sneaky - he just - didn't see any reason why Don needed to know what he was doing.

He read the label on the first one. _Press conference. _No point in wasting time on that - nothing there he couldn't get from the news. Underneath it was _Interrogation #1_, and he popped the jewel case and pulled out the DVD, sliding it into the machine.

He had seen a lot of interrogations by now, both with Don beside him and Don on the other side of the glass, so he was familiar with the routine. Wainwright had his own style, but he could still follow what he was trying to do. He wondered how many people had been standing on the other side of the glass for this one - watching.

The byplay sucked him in immediately: Twilliger, after some initial reluctance, seemed so willing - almost eager - to share the details; unemotional and matter-of-fact as if he was describing his evening commute. The first one was over before he knew it, and he popped in _Interrogation #2_, making mental notes of some details he wanted to explore further later.

He was well into _Interrogation #3 _when he became gradually aware of a change in the atmosphere of the room, but the onscreen conversation held him spellbound, and it was awhile before he consciously tried to identify what was missing around him. It struck him then what he wasn't hearing - Don's deep, even breathing and occasional sleepy muttering - and he lifted his eyes reluctantly from the screen and directed them to the bed just beyond it.

His mouth opened silently, then closed, one finger pumping the power button, as though that would make the small machine and the headphones on his head magically disappear. He met Don's eyes, trying to decide between defensive and apologetic as a stance, then remained silent instead.

He couldn't quite read Don's expression, but the plaintive words in the sleepy growl were more than a little familiar:

"You always go through my stuff."

_TBC_


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Long chapter again, but no other place to break it comfortably - just as well, since it took me a while to get it up. Just about time to bring this home._

Chapter 26

"I…um…" Charlie forced himself to pause, carefully removing the headphones and setting them aside. Better to wait, sometimes, and see how the land lay before offering any additional information. Or adding fuel to the fire. He watched Don glance at the two stacks of CDs as if trying to remember what was on each of them, then look away.

"So. Did you find out what you wanted to know?"

Probably the best answer would have been, 'nope - didn't find out a thing' but somehow, that wasn't what came out of his mouth. "Not exactly. I mean, there are bits and pieces. I know you said a gun wasn't Twilliger's MO, and these seem to indicate that asphyxiation was - not a single type, though - plastic bags, hanging, strangling mostly, even repeated - I don't quite understand how that works…?"

For a minute he thought Don wasn't going to answer, then he heaved a sigh. "He - uh - would bring them to near unconsciousness - or just - past it - then let them revive. It's possible to do it countless times, almost, before it becomes fatal. Since you're so crazy to know."

Charlie wrinkled his forehead. "I don't - understand why - "

This time Don turned to look at him. "It's erotic for him. Yeah, I know that's hard to believe. You remember the sick and crazy part, right?"

Charlie swallowed. "Yeah." He tried not to seem as though he was sneaking a peek at Don's neck. "But - he couldn't have - "

"No, Charlie. He didn't do that to me."

Charlie nodded, a little relieved. "Because someone would have just shot him."

"Maybe - we did want him alive."

"But - I mean, if it was your life or his - "

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

Charlie mentally added the information to all he'd collected. "Other than that, the only consistent pattern I found was what you said about him burning the bodies afterward." His mind was paging rapidly backward, with almost flawless recall. "No, wait - _I_ said that. You said - _you_ said 'something like that'. And all the while you were out of it, you kept mumbling something about fire - so 'something like that' would mean - would mean not necessarily _afterward_, or -"

It was always an amazing rush, that moment when all the pieces fell together and created a full picture, everything clicking almost audibly into place. He glanced at Don for confirmation, but Don's face was stony, giving away nothing. Somehow, that only verified his conclusions, and he felt an instant of triumph and satisfaction. The implications hit him about a second later, followed hard by a completely different sensation.

He glanced at Don again, hoping for clarification, or, even better, denial, but Don's expression this time - sad and tired and a little ashamed - did nothing to allay his fears. He wanted to say something - something comforting or reassuring - but found he had to swallow hard against a reflex in his throat instead. Startled, he pressed a hand hastily over his mouth.

Without a word, Don handed him the gold painted emesis basin.

0

"You threw up all over _him_?" Alan looked incredulously from one son to the other.

"Naw - his aim was pretty good. Must have had time to calculate the trajectory." Don's tone was joking, but his eyes were utterly devoid of humor.

Alan frowned. "Did you pick up some kind of bug here? I tell you, hospitals are no place for sick people - you should take a break and go home." He reached out to touch Charlie's forehead, but Charlie ducked.

"I'm not - sick. I just - " He looked hopefully at Don, and Don rubbed his eyes hard.

"Probably stress," he suggested dully.

Charlie grasped that gratefully. "Yeah. Probably."

Alan leaned back so he could view them simultaneously. "You're telling me that for the last few days, when things were actually stressful, you were fine, and now that things are looking up, you're sick?"

"Sure, I see that kind of thing all the time," Don broke in. "Guys are cool under fire, then throw up all over the place once things settle down. Pretty common." He met his father's eyes blandly.

"Really," Alan's voice was ripe with skepticism.

"Happens all the time," Don repeated.

"Hm." Alan focused back on Charlie. "Still, Charlie, maybe you'd better take a break."

Charlie looked at Don, who didn't return his gaze. "I want to stay," he said bluntly. "I need to talk to Don."

This time, Don did look at him, then away again.

Alan's frown deepened as he studied both of them. "I don't suppose anybody wants to tell me what's going on?" And, when no one answered, "I didn't think so. All right, I can tell when I'm de trop - I need to return some calls for the business anyway." He spoke over his shoulder as he moved toward the door, "Somebody come get me when I'm allowed back?"

Don rubbed a hand over his hair.

Charlie watched the door swing closed behind Alan. Now that they were alone, he actually had no idea what he wanted to say. He needn't have worried.

Don dropped his hand. "Okay, so you found out what you wanted to know - can we just - move on? Oh, and by the way, you don't have to worry about returning that emesis basin - that's yours to keep. I'll tell Colby you won hands down for style - the stuff actually came out of your nose."

Charlie perched on the edge of the bed. "That's not funny," he objected without any real rancor. "It hurt. Don't tell me it didn't come out of _your_ nose."

"Me? Nah." Don considered. "Though I had you beat for distance, I guess. Didn't even make it to the stall. Granger, on the other hand, still holds the medal for sheer volume."

Charlie smiled slightly, then sobered. "Don - I - " Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Don stiffen.

"What? You had to know and now you do and two of us can wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat instead of just one. Mazel tov. I don't get you, man, I really don't."

"Yeah, well, I don't get you either - " Charlie retorted. "Why everything has to be such a big secret. You don't want to tell Dad, okay, that I understand, but I - I don't see why you can't tell me. I thought we were working together - "

"We _are_ working together. That doesn't mean - you don't have to know everything, Charlie. You just think you do."

"And you don't have to _hide_ everything - "

"Right. Come on - are you really glad to know about that? The truth!"

Charlie opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. "Yeah…" he managed unconvincingly at last. "And - no…"

"Right." Don clawed at the covers draping the bed. "You should lie down and relax for a while after all that hurling."

"Like you did, I'm sure."

"I was in the middle of a job."

"Of course you were - what - what are you doing?"

Don had both hands on his bad leg and was trying to lever it up off the raised support. "I need a walk."

"A walk! A - what are you talking about? You _can't_ walk!"

He saw Don wince and close his eyes for a second, paling a shade as his leg dropped from the support to the mattress, then grope for the IV stand anyway.

"Watch me," he ground out.

Charlie crossed his arms to stop them from doing what they wanted to do. Shaking someone with an extensive collection of stitches inside and out was probably a bad idea, no matter how tempting, and he was almost certain he would be sorry for it afterward. Almost. "Just because you say it," he insisted, " - doesn't mean you _can_. There are - there are basic laws of physics involved here - not to mention biology - "

Don had his good leg over the side of the bed now and he paused to catch his breath. "Yeah, well, lucky thing I always sucked at physics then."

"Just - just because you don't _know_ the laws, doesn't mean you aren't _bound_ by - would you ?- All right - !" Charlie was on his feet and around the bed, grabbing the fabric of Don's hospital gown as he showed an alarming tendency to reel forward toward the floor. "All right. You are going to take a _little_ walk. With my help. A short one."

Don gripped the wrist of the hand Charlie was using to keep him upright, breathing hard. "I wasn't going to fall, you know," he muttered crossly.

Charlie snorted. "Yeah - right."

"I wasn't." He obediently pushed his arm into the bathrobe sleeve Charlie was held for him, looked more dubiously at the arm with the IV. "Be nice if somebody could bring me some pajamas or something."

"Maybe they're afraid you'll get out of bed before you're supposed to," Charlie retorted dryly. "Don't move." He unhooked the IV bag and maneuvered it down the sleeve, pushing Don's arm after it before re-suspending it on the pole. "There. Let me get your leg down - no, let me - " He winced himself as he carefully lowered the damaged leg over the side of the bed, comforting himself that it still had to be better than Don slamming it around, then positioned his shoulder under Don's arm. "Okay, up - " He wrapped his free arm around Don's waist, trying to remember exactly where the dressing was. "Man, you're heavy - " he groaned as they stood. "What do you weigh, anyway?"

"Hey, that's all muscle, kid - don't knock it…"

Charlie guided them through the hospital room door, reflecting that it was a lot like gaining an extra pair of legs - with a mind of their own. Still he managed to get them into the hall. "Your job is to hang onto the IV pole and stay upright," he instructed. "I'll do the rest."

"You know, I did this all by myself yesterday."

"Yeah, and that was a big success, wasn't it? If this goes wrong, Dad is going to blame me."

Don gasped a chuckle. "Well, that would be a new twist."

Charlie steered them down the left arm of the hallway, intentionally avoiding the nurse's station. They moved at a snail's pace, but Charlie thought they might make the alcove when Don suddenly gasped, "Charlie - wall - just - just for a minute - "

Charlie stopped, letting Don prop his shoulder against the wall, then helped him turn until he was leaning full on his back. Don had his eyes closed and seemed to be focusing on regulating his breathing, so Charlie leaned next to him to wait. He flinched as Don's head dropped back against the wall with a dull thud.

"You okay?"

Don nodded without opening his eyes. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm good."

In spite of himself, Charlie laughed. "Then you've got a pretty loose definition of that word." He closed his own eyes as well, listening to Don's breathing even out, reflecting idly that just standing here with his brother leaning on him wasn't the worst feeling in the world.

He had no idea how long they stood there before he heard Don say, "It's just - I get kinda tired of feeling like the dark cloud over the House of Eppes, you know?"

Charlie digested that, then shook his head. "I don't follow." He felt Don slump a little more into him, ribcage heaving in a sigh, and he tightened his grip around his waist.

"Seems like it used to be - you working as a college professor - published - lots of acclaim, lots of honors, lots of awards, Mom and Dad proud, everybody happy…I come back to LA and all of a sudden you're throwing up at crime scenes, getting shot at by snipers, Russian Mafia showing up at your classroom, showing up at the house, everybody yelling…" Don petered off, but Charlie didn't speak, afraid that if he did, that would end the conversation. After a minute, his patience was rewarded when Don continued, "Point is, Charlie, I'm walking a line here. And half the time I can't even see where it is until it's too late."

Charlie cleared his throat. "It's not all up to you."

"No?" Don still didn't open his eyes. "Try telling Dad that the next time he asks how a math professor ends up involved with the Russian Mafia, or what a math professor's doing at a crime scene. Those are rhetorical questions, by the way - I think we're all pretty clear on how that happens."

"I pushed to go to a crime scene," Charlie protested. "I mean, one minute he says I'm my own man and free to make my own decisions, the next he's talking about me in the third person while I'm standing right there - as if I have no responsibility at all in what happens to me. Hate it when he does that."

"You and me both."

They were quiet, then Charlie offered, "So. Now that we've decided it's all Dad's fault, are you ready to head back?"

Don smiled faintly. "Yeah."

Charlie tried to pick up the pace on the trip back; Don seemed to be leaning more heavily on him with every step, and he was a little afraid they'd find themselves collapsed in a heap before they could make it back to the safety of the room.

He heaved a silent sigh of relief when they finally pushed through the door. "Let me help you up - I said, let me help - " He led Don to the side of the bed and got him perched on the edge. "Now, let me get your bad leg up first…" Don was silent, but Charlie could tell by the way his hand clenched and released on the IV pole that the process wasn't pain free. By the time he had Don settled, Charlie was perspiring himself and more than a little exasperated. "There," he panted at last. "Wasn't that fun?"

Don's eyes were closed again, but he answered, "Yeah - that was good. Thanks."

Charlie looked at him to see if he was serious, decided that he was and dropped down onto the other side of the bed, propping himself comfortably against the headboard. Don didn't seem to object. After he'd caught his breath, Charlie tried, "You know, it wasn't all quite as idyllic as you paint it."

"No?" Don shifted his leg, trying to re-settle it on the prop. "The way I hear it, there were cartoon birds and everything. Singing happy forest songs."

Charlie shook his head. "No cartoon birds. I definitely would have remembered cartoon birds."

"Yeah, well, close enough."

Don seemed to be teetering toward sleep, so Charlie decided to just push on. "And academia's not as tame as you might think - all that jockeying for funding and the best offices - it can get vicious. Downright devious."

Don smiled. "Office politics - I hear you there. Give me a good firefight any day."

"But I love what I do. I mean, there's nothing like it - it's like - flying. And I think I still have some important contributions to make to the mathematics field - to other mathematicians."

"I have no doubt."

"And teaching - that's rewarding - over the long term, anyway. I really enjoy it. I have no desire to stop."

Don nodded, settling deep into the pillows. "Sure. That's what I meant."

"But - " He hesitated for so long that Don opened one eye to regard him.

"But?"

"But - I - um - well, it's not like I don't consult for other agencies, you know."

"Hm." Don swallowed a yawn. "Like that ever takes you out of the office and to crime scenes."

"No," Charlie admitted. "It's mostly - theoretical."

Don smiled slightly. "But not enough empirical data?"

Charlie grinned. "You _were_ listening."

"Said I was."

"The empirical data makes - a big difference, I find. Or rather - hands on experience does." Don didn't say anything, but he turned his head curiously to study Charlie's face. "It has a way of…sort of…bursting my bubble." He saw Don's expression change and added mildly, "That wasn't - a criticism." Don stayed wary and Charlie closed his eyes, hunting for words. "Do you remember that counterfeiting case we worked on?"

"Sure. That was one of the good ones. Well, mostly…" Don's face saddened.

"I'll never forget that husband, so afraid for his wife, and that young woman in danger, and knowing that my work had - well - helped saved her life, helped repair his. It was so - _immediate_. I don't often get to see such a direct, dramatic result in my work, right before my eyes. It was - heady. Maybe even a little addictive."

Don puffed a breath. "Sure can be."

"It's messy, of course, and it can be heartbreaking and it's so intensely - real…" Charlie looked at his hands. "I find doing the FBI work actually informs my other work - adds a dimension. I think it's good for me. Grounding." Don was looking intently at him, the same look Charlie recognized from interrogations when Don was trying to decide whether or not a suspect was telling him the truth. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, as much as I love the flying, I've discovered that there's something to be said for occasionally landing, too."

Don must have found what he was looking for, because this time he said cautiously, "Yeah?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah."

"Huh." Don turned his gaze back to the ceiling and got comfortable. "Do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Tell Dad?"

Charlie huffed. "Like he'd listen."

They reclined in comfortable silence, and just as Charlie decided that Don was out for the count, he startled him by murmuring, "Know what?"

Charlie had just been thinking that a nap didn't sound like a half bad idea on his own account. "What?" he asked drowsily.

"I'd about kill for a beer."

"Yeah?" Charlie leaned over and flicked Don's IV line significantly. "Know what? You're gonna have to."

Don smiled coaxingly. "Oh, come on - a little morphine, a little beer - how bad could it be?"

Charlie stood up and stretched, hunting for the call button. "You really want a chemistry lecture?" He found the button and pushed.

Don studied the IV. "This could come out. I'm about ready to be done with it anyway."

Charlie rolled his eyes. When the nurse appeared, he gave her his best smile. "Do you have any beverage you can bring my pain-in-the neck brother? Something other than water?"

Don eyed her uncertainly. "Nothing with any of those weird additives you guys put in…" he demurred.

The nurse smiled, bending over to adjust his pillows. "Oh, now, you want to get well, don't you?" she prodded gently. "Those are there to help you get strong again." She smoothed the covers. "You just sit tight. I'll bet I can find something you'll like. You leave it to me." She gave him another smile and a light pat on the shoulder before heading for the door.

Don raised his brows in surprise, then tucked one arm behind his head and watched her go, broke into a grin when she turned at the door and gave him a wink.

He turned to Charlie with a look of sly satisfaction. "I knew you were lying about the nurses."

_TBC_


	27. Epilogue

_A/N: I apologize for the hideously long delay. I was taken ill - I assume it was karmic retribution for all the lousy things I did to Don in this story. :)_

_Thank you to everyone who read along and let me know. I have no words to tell you what your friendship and encouragement have meant to me._

_PS - this section is very long, but it had to be kept in one piece._

**Epilogue**

He awoke more slowly this time, the dream world seeping seamlessly into the waking one, the details fading away, even before he managed to open his eyes. But his heart wasn't racing and his hands weren't cold, and the familiar lung-squeezing sense of urgency seemed to be absent. He lay still for a moment, chasing ghosts of images, but they were already gone. The only thing he knew with gut certainty was that this time, Twilliger had not made a guest appearance.

It was a first.

He managed to pry back his lids, blinking at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Early afternoon, he gauged from the angle. He rubbed an arm across his eyes, then let it rest there, dimming the light. He'd been asleep for hours, then. Despite his arguments about the couch.

He had made what he privately referred to as his "prison break" the day before - back to Charlie's house, back to the sofa. He had been looking forward to being able to spread out in a decent-sized bed again, one with no side rails, so that particular development had come as a disappointment. But his father, consulting a sheaf of photocopied papers from the doctor as devoutly as though they were the original tablets of the ten commandments, had insisted firmly that he was forbidden stairs until his stitches came out.

"See here? Stitches in the abdomen and with your leg - no stairs for at least a week. Don't worry - we'll make the couch nice and comfortable for you." Alan had been painstakingly posting the medication schedule on the refrigerator as he spoke, so there seemed little hope of convincing him that these instructions, now that they were free of the hospital, could be more practically interpreted as "suggestions".

Instead he'd pointed out that his apartment building had an elevator that went directly to his floor - and a king sized bed.

"Yes, I know - " Alan did duty as a human crutch, steering him toward the living room and the offending sofa. "But it doesn't have any room for anyone to stay with you, and you can't be alone. You need care."

He had collapsed on the sofa with some relief despite the tough talk - the ride home had been surprisingly tiring. He blamed tiredness for his next move, because he had foolishly mentioned that Home Care nurses could fill that role very well.

"Don't be ridiculous," Alan found him a pillow and threw a ratty old afghan that his mother had been particularly fond of over him, even though, he reflected with some exasperation, it must be at least seventy degrees out. "You have family. Why would you hire someone when you have family to take care of you?"

"My insurance covers it," Don had argued with what he felt was surpassing reasonableness. "And come on, you guys have disrupted your lives enough for this."

Alan had stopped and stared at him, his gaze so stern that for one wild, déjà vu-like moment, Don was certain that he was about to be grounded. With no allowance. Or television privileges.

When Alan finally spoke, his voice was low, but hard and firm. "You are _not_ - " he said quietly, "a _disruption_ in my life. Not now, not ever. You understand me?"

_Yes, sir._ He had been so taken aback that he only nodded. A little cowed, he had stayed quietly on the sofa for the rest of the morning, meekly taking his medication without a murmur, until Alan, somewhat alarmed,was convinced that the fever must have returned, and insisted on taking his temperature.

Don grinned at the memory. Well, the sofa was pretty comfortable, as sofas went, even if it was narrow, and it had an added bonus in that the one arm was just about the right height for elevating his bad leg. And there were windows. At least he could see outside. Even better, maybe he'd be able to talk somebody into letting him _go_ outside. Or, if they'd all just go away for a while, he could take his leg out for a trial spin.

He glanced at his right hand, now free of any bandages. It was covered with scabs, as if he'd taken a hard slide into home plate, but it functioned pretty well. He fingered the afghan his father had draped over him, pleating the edges between his knuckles. The "sick" afghan - he couldn't believe they still had it - didn't anybody in this family ever throw anything away? His mother had tucked it around him or Charlie whenever they'd been ill - when he'd been recovering from the mumps and was finally allowed to move from his bed to the couch, that time he'd dislocated his shoulder playing ball, and after he'd taken that header from his bike trying to take a hill too fast. It was too hot for the darned thing, really…but somehow, he didn't remove it.

The doorbell rang and he eyed the door speculatively.

"I'll get it!" Alan's voice sounded from back in the kitchen.

_Right. _He folded one arm under his head and waited. The bell rang again. "You know, I could - "

"I said I'll get it! Don't move!" Alan appeared through the swinging door to the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel as he went. "Stay there," he added for good measure.

_Right. Cause I might fly into fifty thousand pieces if I sit up by myself or something. _He closed his eyes and half-listened to his father's mumbled conversation at the door, then to the decisive click as the door shut.

"It's for you."

"For me?" he opened one eye curiously, saw his father brandishing a large, paper wrapped cone.

"Well, it says _'Don Eppes'_." Alan frowned suddenly. "Actually, it says, _'Special Agent Don Eppes'_. I'm not supposed to soak this in the sink or something before you open it, am I?"

"Naw, of course not - don't be ridiculous…" Don tried to lever himself into a more upright position, cursing what used to be reliable abdominal muscles. He took the paper cone from his father and let him help in boosting him up, frowned suddenly. "Why don't you - stand over there in the dining room though - just in case." The look Alan gave him had him throwing up a hand in protest. "Hey, I was joking - it was a joke!" _Mostly._

"It was hilarious," Alan assured him dryly. "It's time for your medication. Can I get you anything else from the kitchen?"

Don was peeling back the paper, but shot him a sideways glance as he suggested innocently, "A Rolling Rock?"

Alan smiled. "A coke it is."

Don made a face at his retreating back. _Everybody's a comedian. _

The discarded paper revealed a plant with thin, pale green leaves in a quietly elegant, hammered silver pot. _Interesting. Something more permanent than flowers. _

Not that there hadn't been plenty of those, the room was practically a greenhouse now - and cards - including comical ones almost daily from his team, all tattling on each other's apocryphal antics; and even one from LAPD's Jefferies, signed, of all things, by his cats. Don grinned. Turned out David had canvassed the floors of the FBI for _PetWorld_ coupons and had buried the guy in such a supply of kitty litter that he was thinking of renting a storage compartment to house it. Or so they said. He wasn't sure he believed half of what they were telling him, but they sure kept him laughing.

Don studied the plant thoughtfully, then put it aside to look at the card - a real card, not one of those tiny ones from the florist's shop. He thumbed open the envelope and read the contents.

"Who's it from?"

Don glanced up as his father returned, setting a glass of soda on a coaster within his easy reach. "Nadine Hodges. The prosecutor. You remember Nadine?"

He saw Alan's brows lift appreciatively. "Nadine would be hard to forget. A plant, hm? She think your apartment needs a little brightening?"

Don resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _My dad. All the subtlety of a sledge hammer. _"She hasn't seen my apartment - just so you don't have to hurt yourself wondering. She just thought it would be nice, and she says it's low maintenance." Actually, what she had said was, _Dear Special Agent Mr. Don Eppes, This plant looked like it could use a good home. It thrives on very little care and is almost impossible to kill - just like a certain G-Man I know. Get better soon. And call me - we have a lot to talk about. Take care of the plant, take care of yourself. Nadine. _

He smiled. His father didn't need all the details. He was almost smacking his lips as it was.

He studied the slender fronds curiously. "What is it, anyway? Do you know?"

Alan peered at the plant over his glasses. "It looks like a Wandering Jew," he decided, returning to his paper.

Don felt a smile grow from deep inside. "No kidding?" he brushed a finger along one of the spiky green leaves. _Gotta love a girl with a sense of humor. _

Nadine had stopped by one of his last days in the hospital. She had smiled to see him sitting up and alert, but had confessed that she sort of missed drugged-up, loose-lipped Don Eppes.

He had snorted. "Yeah, right - just what the FBI loves. Why do you think we get private rooms?"

She'd smiled. "I assumed it was to make space for your adoring public."

Don laughed. "Yeah, that's definitely the other reason. What brings you here?"

"Besides the obvious? I wanted to let you know that Counsel has filed for a change of venue."

"Oh." Don frowned. "Think they'll get it?"

Nadine sighed. "Possible. Either way, I have to say, I don't see him getting anything less than the death penalty. Between the work you guys did and his hours of confession detailing everything, _including_ three victims we knew nothing about - I don't think there's a jury in the country that will hold back on it."

Don nodded. "Good."

"Still." She'd hesitated and he'd looked at her more closely.

"Still what?"

"It's just - I'm sure you realize - " she placed one hand comfortingly over his. "You know the sentence of 'death penalty' doesn't necessarily _mean_ the death penalty, especially in California? It means years on death row, probably countless delays and appeals - odds are, he's as likely to die of old age as he is of a lethal injection."

Don had turned that over in his mind. "I know."

"Think you can live with that?"

He shrugged. "What, him grinding his life away in a maximum security lockup, surrounded by hostile, violent felons with way too much time on their hands and no way to relieve their frustrations? It couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

She had smiled then, that sweet smile that curled deep into one corner of her mouth, and he'd been tempted to lean forward and kiss it - had only stopped himself with the reminder that leaning forward was still a pretty dicey proposition these days and that nothing ruined the mood like falling flat on your face on the linoleum. So instead he'd blurted, "You know, the most important woman in my life was a lawyer." She'd arched her brows at him and he'd continued, with a slightly sheepish shrug. "My mother."

"Oh." The smile deepened and she'd swayed a little toward him. "So, you see me as a mother figure."

Her eyes twinkled, and Don smiled back, musing that he'd risked worse things in his day than a lousy tumble to the floor. _And what the heck. Some things are worth the risk. _So he'd got a firm grip on the bed rail, gingerly shifting forward. As his lips successfully brushed hers he murmured, "Not even close."

He smiled at the memory, turning the card over in his hands. He'd have to get some of those Egyptian cotton sheets. Once he got home, of course. If Charlie or his dad got wind of it, he'd never hear the end of it. He caught a glimpse of his father watching him with a satisfied smile on his face, and bristled slightly. "What?"

"Hm?" Alan innocently shook out his paper. "Nothing. Just - thinking."

"We're just colleagues."

Alan nodded. "That's what I was thinking."

"Oh." Don settled back against his cushions, fingering the edge of the afghan, worn soft with age.

"Anything special you'd like for dinner?"

"Naw. Anything's fine." Truthfully, the oral medication made him queasy in a way that the intravenous hadn't and food still sounded like a less-than-exciting proposition. "When's Charlie due back?"

"Oh - about five, I guess. He had some catching up to do."

Don's smile faded. "Yeah - I'll bet."

Alan glanced at him over his glasses. "He had Amita helping to cover for him and at least two TAs that I know of - I'm sure it's nothing dire."

"Yeah, right. I know that." _Kind of. _He was trying to, anyway.

Charlie had still been in his room when he'd woken up after their talk - _surely the guy had somewhere else he had to be? _He'd had that anxious/questioning/compassionate look he got sometimes - the one that made Don acutely uncomfortable, because it meant he was going to go places that Don spent a lot of time studiously avoiding.

Finally, he'd stammered, "It's just reaction - you know that, right?"

Don had blinked, his head not nearly clear enough for one of Charlie's "start in the middle" conversations. "What are we talking about here?" he'd asked, a little uneasily.

"Dad. I mean - when he yells about - about - you know. The work I do with you. It's just reaction - he doesn't really blame you. You know that, right?"

Don had hesitated. He didn't know that, actually, not really - wondered about it sometimes, hoped for it, but - he looked at Charlie's anxious eyes and nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

Charlie had looked relieved. "Good. Because I wouldn't want you to think - I mean, that's good."

Don turned his head to watch his father serenely working his crossword puzzle, the stack of photocopied papers neatly organized on the table next to his elbow. "Dad - " he began, then faltered.

Alan glanced up at him. "Need something?"

Don hesitated. "Naw," he said at last. "I guess not."

_Forget it. _He could let Charlie's explanation ride for now. Probably Dad didn't know the answer himself, or worse, would fob him off with a kind lie. Did it really matter anyway? They were both steeped in thirty years of _'Donnie, keep an eye on Charlie' _and _'Donnie, watch out for your brother'_ and _'Donnie, you're in charge - look after Charlie'_. Impossible to separate the skeins of then from now; he couldn't manage it himself - how could he expect anyone else to?

He yawned, trying to find a more comfortable position on the sofa cushions, shifted his leg delicately. Even without the IV, he seemed to be trapped in a sort of semi-torpor. Hard to know when that would finally dissipate - and yet, that was the easy stuff, the physical. A little time, a little PT, and he was bound to get through that. It was the head stuff that was harder to tackle.

He had been relieved to finally turn his back on the hospital, had been looking forward to the car that would put miles between him and its antiseptic interior, had even borne the indignity of the wheelchair ride from the building with something approaching grace. So he had been totally unprepared for the fist of ice that had gripped his guts as Charlie halted the wheelchair at the curb where his father was holding the car door for him. His hands had tightened on the armrests until his knuckles ached and he'd sat there, images flipping through his brain like a jumpy old movie coming loose from the reel, until Charlie, misinterpreting his inaction, had offered, "Oh, here - let me give you a hand."

His face must have shown something, because his father, standing in front of him with a more direct view, had said quietly, "I've got you," and rested his hands over his on the armrests until he had finally found the strength to loosen them. Even then, he'd kept his eyes closed for the transfer into the car seat, swallowing hard at the sound of the seatbelt clicking closed, and didn't open them until they were safely home in the driveway. _Damn._

Megan had warned him about what he'd already suspected - that he would be required to undergo debriefing with a Bureau psychologist before he would be considered fit to carry a weapon again, fit for duty. He hated it - hated the inevitable dance between the law enforcement professional and the head shrinker - the one prodding and prying, the other terrified of saying something that would inadvertently lead to the label "unstable" or "unfit"…_as if this kind of work wouldn't make anybody a little crazy - as if being driven a little crazy by it wasn't the absolute essence of sanity. Only the Twilligers of the world could face it unchanged and indifferent - and what kind of a recommend was that?_

_Careful, Eppes - say that out loud and you'll be tied to a desk for the rest of your career. Walk through the process and give all the right answers like a good boy. At the very least, maybe it will leave you able to fire up the grill without having to blow into a bag. And it's not like you're doing so great at getting this under control on your own. _

His eyes drifted automatically to the stack of DVDs and then away. No point in going there again - he had been through them dozens of times looking for…he wasn't sure exactly what. A reason? Some kind of sense? He knew better than to think that he would find that in those interviews, had only succeeded in making himself sick of the sight of Twilliger's smug, calm, apathetic face, of the way he talked about those women, as though they weren't even real lives, people worth considering - as though the families he had left crushed and scarred counted for nothing…_whoa, definitely have some anger lingering there, Eppes - better get rid of that before going head to head with the psychologist, or there'll be hell to pay…nobody likes to let an angry guy carry a big gun…_

"Something I can get for you?"

Don glanced up, startled. _How did he do that? _He would have sworn he was deeply involved in his crossword puzzle. "Naw, I'm good."

"You're allowed another pain pill, you know. If you need it."

"Really. I'm okay." His leg ached some, but he was wary of pain pills - knew too many other agents who had started by using them to numb the pain of injuries, only to end by using them to numb a whole different kind of pain. _Risky. _He'd rather tough it out.

"A nap might be a good idea. I'll wake you up in time for dinner."

"I think I'm already going for the Olympic gold in sleeping." _Though it seems like I'm heading that way anyway. What the heck is in that medication?_ "How about you? You don't need to hang around here. You must have stuff to do for the business - or golf, maybe."

"I feel like spending time with my son. So sue me."

"Yeah - it's hard to get this kind of dynamic company just anywhere." He tried to cover another yawn, didn't quite succeed. "Go on - take off - do something fun. Just leave me the remote."

Alan filled in the final blank in his crossword with a triumphant cackle and put it aside, reaching for a new one. "As it happens, I'm having a ball."

_Yeah. Right. _

_Was there any real point in adding, you look tired? You look older? You look like you could use some fresh air - or maybe prettier, sweeter-smelling company than a doped up and ornery son who is almost guaranteed to tick you off sometime in the next ten minutes? That I'll feel better if I can believe that it's over for you - that your life is back to normal - ? …at least, until something like this happens again? _

He sighed and managed to half-turn on his side, unconsciously tugging the shabby afghan tighter over his shoulders, like a cocoon. The Wandering Jew filled his vision and he gave a tiny smile. _'This plant looked like it could use a good home'…funny. _He didn't know whether he was alarmed or touched that she had seen something in him that he barely recognized in himself. Maybe a little of both. Was he really wandering in the desert, searching for some promised land to call home? _Could be. _

He let his eyes sink closed. _'Almost impossible to kill'…it had better be. _How often did he make it back to his apartment to feed himself, never mind a plant…? He'd have to give it fair warning - existing in his circumference was no mean feat - not ajob for sissies.

Because the inescapable truth was that, no matter how fast he ran, how firmly he tried to separate things, how carefully he fought to create proper distance, his job bled over onto the people and things around him, leaving detritus. Collateral damage. It was the price of doing what he did - the price of being part of his life. And that part he hated. It made him hesitate about relationships - why inflict this gig on some poor unsuspecting woman? It made him wonder, over and over, whether or not it wouldn't be wiser to put a couple of states between himself and his family again. Better for them? Better for him? He could never decide. Or was that what she had meant by wandering?

He kneaded his forehead, burying his face in the pillow. To many questions, and he was fresh out of answers. Or maybe it was this darned medication, making him not just queasy, but maudlin, too. It was certainly making him sleepy.

He didn't realize he actually _had_ fallen asleep until some indeterminate time later, when he was jolted awake by the slamming of a nearby door and the calling of a familiar voice, followed quickly by a loud shushing sound.

"Oh. Sorry. He out?"

"Well, he _was_ - "

His father's stage whisper made Don smile into his pillow. _Man. You guys have absolutely no talent for stealth… _he started to tell them that it was okay, he was awake now, but somehow he turned his head and buried the other side of his face in the pillow instead, tugged back into the greyness by a dragging lassitude.

"He okay?"

_He's not deaf. But then, this is one of the problems with having your bed in the living room…_

"Yeah…just tired, I think. I don't think he had any of the dreams, but I didn't want to leave him alone in case…"

_Damn. They knew about those…? Just…damn…_

"Oh. Good." Charlie's voice was closer, hovering just above him now, and Don wanted to tell him that this wasn't a wake, thank you very much, but his eyes and mouth seemed to be weighted closed. _Okay, that was enough of these pills then - they stopped today. Really. Today._ He tried to stretch, and his father was there immediately, a light pressure on his forehead.

"Donnie? You okay?"

_Yeah, I'm fine…I just want you two to stop talking about me as if you're about to add, "Doesn't he look lifelike! Just like he's asleep!" Because that's all I am. Asleep, I mean. Not laid out for burial. Or, I was, until you woke me up. I think I actually had more privacy at the hospital. _

"Can I get you anything?"

"M'good." _There. _Evidently he still had some slight power of speech left.

"You're good. Of course you are." His father's voice had an amused, sarcastic edge that made him smile.

_No. For real. I am. _

"Go back to sleep. I'll keep your dinner warm."

"What is for dinner, anyway?" _Charlie, now. _He must be perched on the arm of the sofa, next to his bum leg.

_I've got one piece of furniture I can use and you've gotta share it? No overabundance of personal space here…_

"I haven't had a chance to fix anything. I was hoping you'd bring something home."

"Oh, great. I worked all day and I'm supposed to provide dinner too!"

"Yes, well, I was home, hard at work watching the kid all day…" Don heard the smile in his father's voice, felt a pat on his arm, along with a rising sense of indignation. Was he talking about him? Was that some kind of shot? That was definitely a shot, and when he couldn't even defend himself! _Those pills are absolutely going tomorrow. Definitely._ He couldn't afford to be lying here defenseless - not with those two around.

"I guess I could call for pizza…think he's up for a slice?" Charlie again: he could feel one hand resting lightly on his foot. _Surrounded. _

"We'll put some aside for him. He'll be hungry later."

_Yeah, well, you guys just have it all figured out, don't you? And if you're ordering pizza, then no sausage - I'm not eating any of that darned sausage. _He was sinking deeper now, just barely able to follow the bits of conversation, still struggled to get their attention, to have his say.

His father's hand tightened on his arm. "Easy, Donnie. Everything is okay. You're here with us."

_Yeah. _Yeah. He stopped struggling, letting that sink in, listing toward the encroaching allure of sleep.

Maybe he was making this all too complicated. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that, for better or for worse, he was theirs. And that, for better or for worse, they were his.

"Go back to sleep. Everything's all right."

He felt the familiar threadbare texture of the old afghan by his cheek. He wanted to tell them that he understood, not sure if the words ever made it to his lips, or if they just lingered in his mind.

"Just relax - you're home."

_Where nobody ever throws anything - or anybody - away. Home. _

He smiled to himself.

_Yeah. I know._

The End

_(June 2006)_


End file.
